The Devil Of Asgard
by Laerkstrein
Summary: After Thor's banishment and Odin's descent into the Odinsleep, the throne is passed to the God of Mischief, and gives way to all manner of uncertainty among the realm's warrior class. Within the change that overtakes Asgard, the Lady Sif is forced into a compromising position, and must choose whether to violate her loyalties to the kingdom, or wait for vain hope to reappear.
1. The Soot Of Power

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**The Devil Of Asgard**

**Chapter 1: **The Soot Of Power

**A/N: **Needless to say, I do expect that those of you reading this have seen the film. I also trust that I am not the only one who wished that Kenneth Branagh had been able to further elaborate on the state of Asgard while it was under Loki's control. But, it was called _Thor_, and as such, the God of Thunder had to be the primary focus. Thus I have developed this over the past six weeks, alternating the focus to everyone's favorite bastard. I aim to also elaborate further upon the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three, as I feel they were not given too much depth. Note that this is heavily laden with alternate events of my own design, and that I have a fondness for exploring the mother/son dynamic between Loki and Frigga, but I have made every effort to combine this with the beautiful world that the brave cast and crew of _Thor _created for us all on-screen.

I hope that all of you will take pleasure in reading this, and I would especially like to thank any of you who came here after reading "Like Pulling Teeth," for you all helped to make that the most enjoyable fan piece I've written.

* * *

It was killing him slowly, this feigned notion of remorse that he had forced to play upon his face so as to win their trust, if only for a time. His head fell back, eyes cast to the ceiling, breathing deeply as they watched him with concern, suspicion. Though physically draining, Loki had spend the whole of the previous night pacing the halls, strolling along in the gardens and wracking his brain for answers. There was no reason, save for those fabricated within his busy skull, he could find for Odin to have lied; no reason, save the fear of him becoming what he was, for the truth to have been hidden from him, from Thor. All along he should have known, had the right to know, who and what he was. Everything, these decadent halls and heightened ceilings, the early morning hours spent sleeping in the library, upon Odin's knee, had meant nothing. It had all been a lie.

He had seen the darkness lining the skin of his eyes early that morning, but had done nothing to repair it, simple as it would have been for someone with his talent in magic. Now, as they stared up at him from the dias of his throne, easily bothered by the fact that it had been given to him, it seemed that the decision had been a wise one, indeed.

Loki rose, Gungnir's shaft warm in his hand, and descended the stairs, their eyes all wide as he denied them their request to bring his brother home.

He spoke lies to them, stating that he could not undo his father's last command; that it would be disrespectful to the High One for him, though the now rightful king, to undermine his authority in such a manner. Though, in truth, Loki would have liked nothing more. If only it didn't involve foolish Thor's return.

Sif seemed to burn with disdain, disbelief, that undying hatred. So long she had wanted to turn him inside out, watch him bleed down the steps of his mother's garden as she took to ridding the Nine Realms of his brand of trickery. Since that day when they were children, when Loki had finally come into his own as a sorcerer, slipping into her bedchambers in the dead of night and changing her hair, by way of some ancient and lengthy spell, to the color of the pine tree's hardened bark. By now, if he so wished, Loki could change it back, make her long locks the color of golden candlelight once more. Of course, he never would.

"_We're done,_" he snapped, his eyes boring into Fandral's, the warrior holding tightly to the Lady Sif's arm.

Wisely, he nodded with a generous smile, and gently tugged on the warrior woman, even as she refused to move.

But Loki raised a hand.

"Leave her," he said, and turned swiftly to the guards, nodding for them to follow the Warriors Three as a muted escort, ensure that they did not seek to conspire against him. The two men bowed slightly and swept quickly out of the room, the heavy doors echoing as they were promptly shut, leaving the two of them alone. "Now, Lady Sif..."

She spoke not a word as her feet moved, carrying her up the steps to stand before him, her hand lashing out to strike the spear from his. It clattered to the floor, Loki's eyes wide with shock and irritation as Sif took to him, her hands against his throat.

"Monster," she hissed, and he felt his gut churn. "You care not for the people of Asgard, for the trials that time has brought upon them. You are but a wolf in sheep's clothing, having always sought after the Allfather's power, to hold yourself above him..." she leaned in close, her breath shaking, "when you are nothing more than a writhing snake with your belly to the floor."

He sneered, grabbing her arm and giving it a twist, the toe of his boot pushing against the back of her knee, causing Sif to fall against him. Her eyes were wide, her lip trembling with anger. Not once would he dare to admit it, but she was right. He had never been one to care for the peace that Odin strove for, had only ever held his tongue in hopes that the Allfather would choose him as heir to the throne. Following the announcement of Thor's coronation, Loki had all but thrown that propriety to the vultures, hovering in the dark behind his brother's back and setting his secret plans in motion. All of those accusations he could bear, could swallow at table with the rest of his meal. But for the Lady Sif to say he was naught but a wriggling serpent, the lowest of the kingdom's creatures, was intolerable.

"Too much lead on that forked tongue?" she shot, giving him a firm knee to the groin.

Loki seethed and pushed her backwards, Sif's head striking the floor with a solid thud. She pulled him down after, and the two of them tumbled about like children in the courtyard, lacking the occasional stone or handful of dirt to shove in the other's mouth. With his hands at the side of her head, Loki growled, fingers knotted in her dark hair.

"You," he said through heavy breaths, "are an impressive woman, Lady Sif. My brother is indeed fortunate to have earned your favor." She flinched. "Now, tell me: How many times have you dreamed of him, taking Thor as your own?"

Her jaw dropped in shock, struggling beneath his weight as he straddled her. "That is none of your concern!"

"Ah. But you do not deny it." He leaned back and stood, stalking across the room as she leered after him. Kneeling, Gungnir was taken again in his hand, a smile appearing on his face. From the moment it had been offered to him, Loki had known with a certainty that he was meant to rule. "Now, Lady Sif, you may leave."

The warrior woman swore bitterly as she got to her feet, spitting the words at him as though they were venom with which to burn his skin.

"And, when you meet them, send the guards back."

**# - # - # - #**

Quietly Fandral sat, a goblet clasped in one hand as he leered across the room at Volstagg, whose mouth was, once more, filled to the breaking point with meat. He shook his head, paying the ale no mind as the sun burned through the window, heating the skin of the back of his neck. The whole situation was rather disconcerting, even a bit too convenient for his liking. A philanderer he may have been, but Fandral was also a reasonable man, having little interest in passing judgment upon any before first understanding their intentions, the facts behind whatever incident may have been at hand. But as his friends had pointed out in the healing room in the days before, there was something amiss in the House of Odin.

There were rumors that flitted about the grounds like tattling butterflies, all of the younger prince and the events following the coronation ceremony. One of them, and Fandral knew it to be lies, told of Loki's silver tongue as it had weaved ropes about his brother, urging him to breach the borders of Jotunheim and wage war. The others, though equally as outlandish, had some merit to them. Tales of Loki's disdain for Thor, his jealousy, even desires to be favored by the Allfather. Those were certainly points that he could believe, were it not for the lying tongues of the servants what had told him.

Truly, the servant girls were good for a cold and lonely night, but little more.

The warrior flinched at the sound of his companion's chewing, his arm flying up and spilling the ale over his boots. Fandral grimaced and cast the goblet to the floor, ignoring it as it rolled across the room and between the legs of a chair as he stormed to Volstagg's side, eyes aflame.

"What in the devil is _wrong_ with you?!" he demanded, slamming a fist on the polished wood. Volstagg's plate hopped, sending grapes rolling to the floor. "Sif, what with her wild tongue, is like to be eaten alive in there, and here you are _pigging out_!"

The other turned as Fandral's hand struck the drumstick away, sending it soaring across the room and into a potted plant. His beard bounced as he stood, grabbing Fandral by the front of his tunic and hoisting him off the floor. With a bellow, he began to spin, holding the man in his outstretched arms and letting him fly towards the window. Eyes wide, Fandral reached for one of the columns, his hand scraping the side as he flew through the arched opening, falling and barely catching the edge of the balcony.

He wailed, not daring to look down for his fear of heights, and squirmed until Hogun appeared and yanked him back into the room. On his hands and knees the warrior heaved, rolling down the steps and onto his back as Sif entered.

"Ah, Lady Sif," he gasped, swiping at his brow. "How kind of you to join us."

The woman stomped her foot, taking hold of the drumstick that had fallen into the plant and flinging it angrily into the nearest torch.

"I take it your chat went rather well," Volstagg quipped, dripping with as much sarcasm as ale upon his beard.

"That unrepentant bastard!" she howled, seeming to give thought to kicking the torch to the floor. "I cannot stand him!"

Taking to his feet, Fandral turned and crossed the room, coming to stand beside Sif, a hand on her shoulder. "Well, that's not hard to see, my dear," he chuckled with a grin. She glowered at him. "I take it he didn't ask you to dinner."

Sif opened her mouth then quickly closed it, having thought better of her response. This made Fandral raise a quizzical brow and stroke his chin, watching as she paced across the polished floor. He thought that, were she allowed to continue doing such for very much longer, the heels of her boots would wear a deep trench right through the slabs of beautiful stone.

"He most certainly did not," she snapped, coming to fall into a chair at the head of the table. Immediately, Sif seized the pitcher of ale, tilting it over a goblet until it was filled, bringing it to her lips and downing it without so much as a breath. "He has nerve to speak of Thor, to call himself King."

Fandral nodded. "Ah, so that's it."

"What's it?!" she demanded.

He coughed, quickly moving across to the opposite side of the room before speaking loudly, "So he made mention of your beloved. Of your... _secret_endeavors."

Sif jumped from the chair and ran across the top of the table as Fandral stared, suddenly begging her not to pound him into powder, and darted around to stand at Volstagg's side, his chair sticking out.

"I didn't mean it!" he shouted, running around the chair as Hogun watched. "It was just a joke!"

"It's always jokes with you!" Sif retorted, finally leaping over Volstagg and seizing him by the hair. "Loki is the bastard and you are the fool!"

Fandral wailed, apologizing and insisting that Sif not rip out too much of his hair, as he had considered taking a very lovely young woman out for a quality night of fun. She scoffed at that, yelling at him once more, this time about his blatant disregard for women unless it involved removing their undergarments and bedding them.

The door opened then, the woman's voice lost amid all the shouting. It was only when Hogun let out a curt bark that they ceased, Sif seated atop the philanderer's back, her hands still knotted in his short blond hair. Volstagg turned as well, another goblet of ale clasped firmly in his hand. Turning towards the door, they all took to their feet and offered a deep bow as the goddess swept through the room. Her eyes lingered upon the torch a moment, looking to the group as if expecting to know why on earth there were burned chicken bones within the flame. But she shook her head, the gown sweeping about at her feet as she settled upon one of the chairs.

"Has my Lady slept well?" Fandral inquired, hands moving to lay flat his hair again.

They all knew the answer to that silly question, word of the queen's trials having surged throughout the palace in recent days. It had been said by her servants that the Queen Frigga had not slept a wink since Thor's banishment, the day of the Allfather's unfortunate fall into the Odinsleep. The warrior grimaced, noting that Loki's words had been true, evidence of the goddess' fatigue evident upon her fair face. He grimaced and looked quietly to Sif, curious as to whether or not she had realized this as well.

Frigga sighed, leaning back in the chair and motioning for them to sit. The warriors did as they were bidden, and Fandral quite happily allowed Hogun and Volstagg to settle into the space between himself and Sif.

She spoke quietly of the Allfather's condition, expressed her worry that the High One would ever awaken again. Fandral sat in silence, hunched over in his chair with his arms folded, his brow creased and a serious expression upon his face. He had never had true reason to dislike Loki, even as a boy. An awkward child himself, he had only ever played along with his friends and their charades, fearing the worst if he did not. After all, he had seen Sif's ferocity when Volstagg had dared to tell her that her idea to jump off the top of the palace and into the lake was a foolish one, and she had made sure that he sported quite the black eye for a while. Fortunately, on that day, Loki had gone to tell Odin of her exploits, and the Allfather had come and put a stop to it.

But, Fandral had noticed that, as their group had aged, Loki had become a bit more hostile, more introverted, even when it came to his having a part in their schemes. He had argued with Thor far more often, not hesitating in the slightest to tell his brother that he was utterly daft. The first time, he recalled, had been a rather violent argument, one that had ended with an abundance of swearing on Thor's part, and Loki planting a foot in his fallen brother's face. Ashamed as he was to admit it, Fandral had laughed that day.

Things were all so different now, what with Thor having gone. Thus far, all evidence pointed to the contrary, insisting that Thor's banishment and the Odinsleep had just come about as naught but coincidences. It was clear that Sif and Hogun, at least, were increasingly suspicious of their friend, but Fandral would not make a call just yet.


	2. Pride

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 2: **Pride

* * *

Down the hall she went, gliding, as though the floor beneath was little more than air, the slippers upon her feet keeping out the chill of night. The palace had grown dark hours before, the only light being the small torches upon the walls every few feet, leaving long shadows to flicker across the expanse of hallway. The ornamented doors stood tall before her, easily opened by a wind that was summoned with but a wave of her hand. They soared inwards, the tall shelves of the library standing high and looming above her head, the candles upon the tables lighting and fading as she strode quickly past. Up and down the rows of books she went, head turning from side to side, half expecting to see him slouched over on the floor, eyes wide and pulling the letters right off the pages.

By the time Frigga reached the end of the first two rows, he was nowhere to be found, and not even the flickering green flame that would so tenderly sit about in his palm gave off any light or heat. With a gentle frown she turned, deciding that it might have been just a waste to come, to continue to look for him, and started back through the library to return to her bedchambers.

For the whole of the day she'd been looking, having heard tell from the servants of the quarrel what had come about in the throne room. It had made her think that perhaps this was too much for him, having lost his brother and father and now being forced to hold down the whole of Asgard.

His hand grazed her shoulder then, her blue eyes quiet as Loki draped an arm about her neck, his cheek pressing itself to the side of her head. Frigga took slow, tired breaths, her fingers curling into those of his free hand, leaning back against him. The whole night long she had sat awake, wondering, worrying for him, still in shock knowing that their family had so easily been torn in two. The queen could not help thinking that he felt the same.

With a tenderness, he pulled her back, down the rows of sweet-smelling old books and towards the cushioned chairs that sat about by the windows with their carved wooden legs, waiting until Frigga had seated herself before coming to kneel at her side, his own eyes still. She took to him, running a hand idly through his hair, finding that she enjoyed that unnamed scent that lingered about her boy. He was so sweet, she thought, having stayed for so long at his father's bedside amid tending to his new duties, pacing nervously about Odin's bedchamber as though he were trapped in a fishbowl. Even so, she could see that he was still angry.

"Do not hate him," she whispered, his forehead resting against the arm of the chair. "He only sought to spare you."

Loki looked up, his expression having turned dark at the mention of the Allfather. "And you?" he inquired, voice low. "Why do you defend him and say nothing for yourself? Surely, you, the one who comes to see all, knew."

Frigga sighed, her hand straying to his face, noting that his skin was increasingly warm in the chill of the night. Perhaps he was falling ill, the trials of the throne and heritage still steadily eating away at him.

"You know as well as I that I have no need to justify myself to you." Her words were calm, though she feared he would misunderstand, determine that she was denying him an answer. "You have always had my love, Loki; you have never had to fight for it, nor shall you ever. And, had your father not asked, I would have otherwise told you all."

His eyes moved to the floor, easily dissatisfied. Clearly, it was not what he wanted to hear. As the seconds ticked past, he seemed to grow warmer to the touch, as though a flame had been set to burn beneath his skin, and Frigga half expected him to start puffing thick black smoke. Rather, he looked to her, the hurt in his gaze embellished by the gentle flickering of a nearby candle.

Where was that bright, colored flame, she wondered, held aloft in his hand, sweeping shadows across his face as he turned and looked at her? He used to smile, Frigga recalled, even in the dead of night when sleep had been forced away with the consistent turning of a page. They would sit on the floor, backs to the bookshelves as he'd read, show her everything his keen mind had absorbed until he'd shut his eyes and fallen limp against her arm. That boy had been happy, content in learning the craft that, as he would proudly tell her, had easily aided him in his efforts to stick Sif's boots in the mud or turn his brother's meal to dust. Even if his friends had called him a fool for it.

But this boy, this man, knelt before her was too far distanced from happiness now.

"What meant more to you then?" She could hear the anger behind those words, the strength he used to bite it back. There was that ice in his eyes, the very same he'd held when she had come to him within the Relic Chamber. "Letting slip the truth of this wretched state of mine, or holding to my father's lies, bound to you with his eternal love?"

The queen dropped from the chair, forcing him into her arms as her eyes squeezed shut. The heavy thrum of his heartbeat buzzed through her bones, and Frigga knew that she was just as responsible. She should have defied her husband, her king, told their son from whence he'd come. But, thinking on it now, he had always been rather closed-off from the world, preferring to idle by her side and hold fast to her sleeve, save for the moments in which Thor had dragged him, kicking and screaming, off to play. How much worse would the truth have made that awkward stage called childhood? Had she given it wings, life, would he have been damaged sooner, grown up with an even deeper resentment of his father? How confused he already was, this tender child of hers. She had never wanted this, never wanted him to hurt so. But here he was, clasped tightly in her arms, sure to have been biting back those surfacing whimpers of which he was so terribly ashamed.

Loki was king now, king of Asgard. And, from watching Odin, he must have determined that a king did not lose face. Even in the presence of his mother.

But he was still just a boy.

"Don't cry," she whispered, and Loki leaned forward, allowed her to begin rocking him. "Don't cry, love."

**# - # - # - #**

How irate Sif was when she retired home, crawled quietly into her bed after kicking off her boots, that damned face of his still caught up in her head. She hated that smile, had wanted to slap it right off his face from the day he'd started sporting it, often commenting to the others that, were Loki to smile any wider, his jaw would fall clean off. While held there beneath him in that uncomfortable position, as if he ruled her, Sif had felt the sudden urge to spit upon him like the dog he was. If nothing else, he'd damn well deserved the blow delivered to his girth, knowing full and well that, as a prince, he'd had his fair share of squealing damsels caught up in his sheets. It seemed to be a sense of pride for all men, and, as such, Sif had seen fit to show him just how little she cared about his bloated ego.

The woman lay in silence, the ceiling of her chambers the only slight comfort in the dark of night. If Loki so wished, he could have hidden himself among the shadows in her room, amid the folds of the curtains, so small and sly that she'd not know he was there until his arm was held against her throat.

Though it was the way of things, Sif was not satisfied with the manner in which he had been named king. There was no doubt in her mind that, what with Thor banished and the Allfather in the Odinsleep, the Lady Frigga had had no recourse but to call upon her son, insist that he carry on his father's work of protecting the realm. But, as she had seen in the liar king's eyes, that was surely not the way of things. Of course, he was expected to go about his duties as a ruler, play figurehead and protector and promise the people that all was well. But Loki was not a creature of generosity, of sincerity unless it suited him, and Sif had little doubt that, in time, he would play his hand, reveal his true intentions. By that time, she feared, it would be far too late.

She thought on Thor, curious to know how he was faring in the mortal realm. There was no reason to think that he would not be able to hold his own, what with being the Son of Odin and a brilliant warrior, but Sif feared for him, for the confusion that he was likely suffering at that very moment, wondering how in all the Nine Realms his loving father could have thought to send him so far away from home. Yet, as all who cleaved unto the House of Odin knew, he was a fair ruler, and would not have cast out his firstborn without a genuine and righteous purpose. And it made her wonder if, were the tables reversed, the Allfather would have had such care when dealing with Loki.

Thor would be bothered to hear her say such a thing, but Sif hoped not.

From the window, she could hear the cicadas singing their songs, the gentle buzzing a welcome relief following such troublesome days. Sif lay flat, rolled and covered herself with as much of the blanket as her weary arms could gather, shut her eyes and thought of happier times. Of Thor.

His smile beamed through her head like a great light, and she breathed easy. She would wait for the day he returned home, and the realm would be at peace.


	3. Liar, Liar

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 3: **Liar, Liar

* * *

The air was warm on the morning Fandral awoke to a fair servant girl knocking on the door of his chambers. Upon recognizing her voice as such, he had dressed himself quickly, easily forgetting to comb his hair as he hurried to allow her entry. But she had not behaved as he had expected, had not come to request his services as she had done many times before. Rather, she had stood quietly out in the hallway, the pale fabric of her gown shining as she offered him the notice, her eyes downcast to the floor as he peeled away the seal and read. A shocking notion was what lay upon the page, and the warrior's gaze darted to the girl with confusion, mouth open to ask if it were real and not just some elaborate prank.

"It has come," she said timidly, "from the king."

Fandral reached to touch her, but she recoiled, biting her lip and curling the ends of her fingers into soft sleeves. She turned away then, leaving him to stare after her as she ran, nearly falling into another of the servants who appeared to be carrying a handful of clean towels towards the bathhouse. With a scowl, he closed the door, set about to getting himself fully dressed as the note, which Fandral had left to lie upon the mattress, stared at him across the room.

The servants always behaved this way, he thought, pulling on his boots, when something was amiss. As if they had a sixth sense with which to determine when Loki would go off in a fit of worn out nerves. It had been this way for years now, since he and Thor had stepped into adolescence, turning to make everything and anything a competition. Except drinking. Loki had never seemed particularly fond of drowning himself in ale, even at the time of celebration. Everything had been a contest, even, and it brought a smile to Fandral's face to remember, collecting beautiful girls for nights on end. He laughed aloud, remembering that one morning several years before when Loki had come to table with a maiden's undergarments stuck to the seat of his pants. Unfortunately for the both of them, she had been the very same to serve them their breakfast. Fandral howled now, wishing he could watch once again as the prince had seemed to consider bashing his head into the wall.

Save for Volstagg, who had always been a rather relaxed fellow, he had never been particularly close to any of the others to share all of his endeavors. Especially not with the prince's brother, who had always seemed rather content in keeping his personal affairs out of earshot, unless it came time for him to bark at Thor for being such a damned braggart. Only then had Loki sunk to their level of impropriety. So it made Fandral wonder as he swept down the hall, easily ignoring the longing glances of fair women, why in all the Nine Realms he would be called by their king, expected to appear immediately.

The doors of the throne room stood looming, guards flanking them on either side, giving the warrior a strange look as he approached.

"The fields," one of them said, pointing him to the Eastern side of the palace, and Fandral glanced at the notice. It had not made mention of where they were to meet, and he had thus assumed the throne room to be the proper place. "Go quickly."

The warrior shrugged and made his way quickly down the halls, taking hurriedly to the first archway that would lead him outdoors. He did not fear Loki, regardless of what any other man may have said. He just wasn't fond at all of the fact that the man had an increasingly foul temper, and had no desire to be on the receiving end of it as Elia clearly had. The poor girl, he thought, must have questioned why their king sought to meet with him, and had likely shed many a tear while on her way to Fandral's chambers.

Though the sun was warm, the sky was gray, the thick clouds seeming to have descended to the ground in the form of fog. The air smelled warm and wet, the steps that would lead him to the fields appearing right out of nowhere, nearly sending Fandral tumbling as he turned and took hold of the railing, easing himself down until such a time as he could see them all clearly. The grass came to rest softly beneath his boot, moisture clinging to the greenery and wiping itself along the polished leather. There was a hill somewhere nearby, and they had used to race through the grass in summer, curling in on themselves and allowing gravity to take them down the slope and into the water of the lake. Their own little nature ride.

The sound of heavy footsteps reached him, and, upon determining from which direction they came, Fandral turned and stared with wide eyes, promptly diving out of the way as a mass of shadow charged towards him. The warrior rolled, instinct driving him to reach for a blade that was not present. Rather, he scrabbled back on his hands, falling back into the grass as the shadow reared up above him.

A crack sounded through the air, echoed as a young boy appeared through the fog with a whip, waving it at the shadow, the horse, as it retreated with a whinny.

"How many times must I tell you not to play games with him?!"

The warrior stared as Loki appeared out of nowhere, raising a hand and giving the boy a solid smack on the head. The child flinched and muttered a hurried apology as he ran off into the fog, likely to chase down the steed and send him back to the stables. Fandral sat stunned on the ground, air whooshing past his ears as Loki grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him up, scowling after the boy's shadow with a snort.

Fandral grimaced, swallowed the lump in his throat and sighed. This was certainly starting off well.

He lifted the notice from his pouch. "You wished to speak with me, my King?"

Loki stared at him a moment and made a sour face, shaking his head. "Don't... Don't do that, Fandral," he said as though he'd tasted something bitter. The warrior flinched, Loki's hand resting on his shoulder. "Before the guards and people it is one thing. But here it is unnecessary."

Fandral was taken aback at that, and set about to following the king as he walked, growling to himself about the child's incompetence as the horse rushed past them again.

"He is young," the warrior quipped. "He'll learn."

Loki scowled again in obvious disagreement but made no reply. If there were no need for conversation, Fandral wondered why in Asgard he'd be called here. He felt rather like a prisoner, unsure of what to say so as to gain favor with the man what had locked him swiftly away.

"It is cool today," he said, and immediately sought to kick himself in the pants. What kind of fool was he, prattling on about the state of the weather? He was not a senile old man.

There were several topics that flitted about the warrior's head, though none of them seemed quite appropriate for the moment. Thoughts of childhood, of games and challenges past, perhaps even their first hunt for bilge snipe what had taken an unexpected turn, caused Thor to easily break his ankle as they had fled. He smiled at the thought, but decided it best not to mention Odin's firstborn given the obvious tensions. Though he had shown no real sign of disdain as of yet, Fandral had no doubt that Loki would bite right through his lower lip if his brother's name came about.

"I hate the sun," came the sudden reply, and Fandral raised a brow. "It would be easier, don't you think, if it just rained all the time?"

"I suppose..."

"No drought, no heat... no misery..."

Fandral knit his brows together. What in Asgard was he prattling on about?

The warrior's eyes widened as they continued along, recognizing the steady descent that was very soon to lead to the hill.

He leaned forward, catching Loki by the shoulder and shouted, "Wait!"

The two fell forward then, sliding through the fog and down the hill far faster than Fandral could have remembered, spiraling through the wet grass and having it cling to their clothes as the final yards came swiftly along, propelling them through the air and into the center of the lake. Fandral choked as water swept over his head, sputtering as he surfaced, trying to clear the moisture out of his nose with a hefty snort. As a boy, he would have been thrilled by such a journey, laughing as soon as he could take down air again, calling up to the top and daring the others to see if they could fly further along than he. But Fandral did not laugh now, peered around the murky water for Loki, wondering if he was about to get a tongue lashing similar to that which the boy had received.

The other surfaced, eyes clamped shut and sopping wet, trembling as the cool air closed in around him. He sputtered, swiping at his face with a hand and turning to stare incredulously at Fandral.

"Well, that was fun," the warrior said with a half-smile and a chuckle. "At least Thor isn't here. He'd never let this go."

Fandral's breath caught in his throat at that, realizing his foolish slip of the tongue as Loki's gaze became more intense.

He expected to be shouted at, but the king said nothing. He just stood with the water chest-deep as he realized that it was rather shallow, and laughed.

**# - # - # - #**

"Where the devil is he?!" Sif demanded, slamming a fist on the table.

Volstagg sighed, leaned forward and steadied the goblet as it began to tip, shaking his head the moment she turned around. He could understand that she longed for Thor's return, as did they all, hoped each day that their friend would come swiftly home and that things would be made right once more. But, so long as the Allfather remained in the Odinsleep, there was little for them to do but obey whatever orders they were given by their king. And, though Volstagg would never say so aloud, it was fortunate that those orders had been very few.

He settled back in the chair as Sif paced frantically and Hogun stood beside the window, staring blankly at the empty plate that sat before him. It had been in this very room that their jolly group had decided to set off for Jotunheim, ensure that the realm was protected in the days to come. Thor had stood where Hogun now did, Loki seated quietly as his feet while the rest of them had questioned the prince's logic, eventually won over by his impossible charm. Of course, Volstagg suspected that he had been the easiest of the lot to convince, given his obvious weakness for succulent treats. Thor had exploited that rather well.

"It will do you no good to complain about it," he said to Sif as she set about bouncing an apple off the toe of her boot. The bearded warrior leaned onto the table. "He's like to be off and flipping skirts again, you know that."

She caught hold of the apple as it flew up, nails curling into the red skin. "Naturally," she replied bitterly. "That fool would sooner waste the day away with squealing maids than to take this matter seriously. Were Thor still here, we wouldn't have this problem..."

"But he's not," Volstagg said pointedly, and frowned. "And not a one of us can change that."

As she began pacing again, muttering angrily to herself, Hogun stepped away from the window and laid his hands flat upon the table, waiting until Sif's movements ceased. When the two of them looked to the man, he motioned and turned back to the open archway of the window, ushering them close. Volstagg pushed himself from the chair and followed, leaning around the pillar as the warrior pointed down and into the gardens.

"He is there," he said simply, and Volstagg's eyes fell upon Fandral and Loki as they dragged themselves from the lake just as the fog began to clear up.

Sif spat and shook her head, turning on her heel to take off out the door.

"Now just where do you think you're going?!" Volstagg demanded, immediately fearing the worst as he lumbered after her. "You go down there, you're only going to make things worse! For all of us!"

The warrior woman kept on walking, coming to stop only in the doorway. She did not even look at him as she shouted back, "To teach those fools a lesson!"

His eyes closed and Volstagg shook his head, knowing full and well that this wasn't going to end pleasantly. For any of them.

**# - # - # - #**

"Why are you all wet?" Frigga said with a frown as he walked up the steps. She drew near and lifted a hand, began picking grass and mud from his clothes. "And why, dare I ask, are you covered in...?"

It had proven an impossible task to climb back up the hill, steep and slick as it was, and the two of them had decided it best to just swim the length of the palace until they reached the garden steps so as to sneak back inside and get cleaned up. Loki had tried not to smile at Fandral's comment, not to find pleasure in the fact that, were he present, Thor would be bellowing with that contagious laughter. There were things about his brother that he could not stand, many of which had spanned both their lifetimes. But, if there was one thing Loki would admit to himself that he missed, it was that ridiculous laugh.

His mother's jaw dropped as Fandral climbed out after him, spitting out a mouthful of green lake water with a grimace. It couldn't have tasted very good, as he promptly dropped to his knees on the bottom step and vomited into the fog. The warrior heaved, groaning aloud and remarking that, if Loki had been watching where in the hell he was walking, this wouldn't have happened. As Frigga turned away to call for some towels, Loki slipped back down the steps and tipped Fandral back into the water with a boot to his ass.

The queen happened to see this, calling hurriedly to one of the nearby guards as she scolded Loki, pulled him away from the water's edge with a bothered look as the armored man took to yanking Fandral out of the lake again. His hands slapped the marble, hacking and spitting as a girl appeared with a towel, draping it over the warrior's head as she pulled him to rest against the top step.

"What was that?" his mother whispered, pulling him towards the fountain. She looked appalled. "What were the two of you doing in the lake to begin with? It's cold out! Do you want to catch your death?"

"It's his fault," Fandral wheezed with a tired smile, still struggling to clear water from his sinuses. "I tried to stop him, but he just had to go tumbling down the hill."

"The hill?" she repeated, golden brows raised. Loki felt like a child when she talked to him like that. "On the East side by the field and stables? I thought I'd told you not to play there."

Loki shrugged, biting his lip so as to restrain that smile. "That was years ago, Mother."

"And that makes a difference, does it? You could have killed yourselves! Do you not remember how your brother broke his ankle running down that hill?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "Actually, that wasn't because of the hill. Do you remember the morn following Eidal's wedding?" Loki rocked back and forth on his heels, laughing. "We, uh... Went after the bilge snipe what now hangs in Father's study. Thor couldn't keep up."

What with the way she looked at him, obviously disappointed, Loki expected that she'd take to pulling him about by the ear again, as she had when he was a boy and had gone against her wishes. But Frigga grabbed him by the wrist, towing him quietly across the garden pavement and towards the palace steps, directing the first servant that passed to prepare the water in the bathhouse. Now, being fully grown, Loki was perfectly capable of cleaning himself up. The fact that she sounded so determined now made him wonder if she were going to go about playing the role of the doting mother again. If so, he'd be the first King of Asgard to have his mother present during his bath. An increasingly disturbing thought.

"Don't," he told the woman, pulling himself from Frigga's grasp.

They exchanged looks, warning her with his eyes that she mustn't dare defy him. Fortunately, it seemed she feared him more than his mother, and nodded, hurrying off down the hall to tend to other duties. Loki frowned, leaving a wet trail as he moved away from the queen, intent on retiring to his chambers for a change of clothes and nothing more. She followed quickly at his heels, asking someone to take to soaking up the water before someone had chance to fall and break their neck. Loki rolled his eyes.

The doors were opened quickly as he stormed into the room, unfastening buckles and tossing things to the floor as Frigga lingered close behind. Loki glanced back at her a moment, noting how she eyed him as she settled onto the bed, clearly disapproving in the way that he just left everything there, rather than drying them off and putting them away. Though he couldn't say that he particularly cared.

"You're upset."

Of course he was. It didn't take a scholar to determine that much, but he said nothing and took to the wardrobe, throwing the sopping wet tunic across the room and yanking another one over his head.

It was ridiculous for a King of Asgard to be coddled, treated like a child in front of servants and even friends. Disgraceful.

"Is this about your father?"

Loki flinched and settled on the edge of the mattress, refusing to look at her. She slid across the bed, one hand on his shoulder while the other worked a towel through his wet hair. If it wasn't about Thor, it was about Odin. Every time. He couldn't be the slightest bit irritated with Sif's defiant attitude or his mother's obsession with protecting him like a child. It was always the same. He felt like a rat in a trap.

The doors flew open with a bang, the guards howling as the Lady Sif walked in with a scowl, pushing one of the armored men back and into the other. The two tumbled to the floor and Loki stood, mouth open to demand what in all of Asgard she thought she was doing barging in like this. The words didn't get out as Sif's hand struck him full in the face, his mother gasping in shock. The warrior woman grabbed him by the collar and flung Loki to the floor, his head hitting with an audible crack.

Through the buzzing in his skull, he could hear Frigga calling frantically to the guards and groaned, managed to call them off through Sif's forearm suffocating him. Loki turned his head, saw them all standing in the doorway and staring, hands closed tight around their weapons and confusion on their faces.

"Out!"

Loki could barely see them as they scattered, one of the men stepping further into the room to take hold of Frigga, gently lead her towards the door as she looked back. When the doors finally shut with a bang, his head ached, starting with the incessant throbbing at the back of his skull. Sif leered down at him as he lifted a wet boot, laid it against her middle and pushed off. She fell back, catching herself on her knees with a growl.

"You... just love to play this game with me... don't you?"

Her expression seemed to darken, if at all possible, and she reached behind her back, drawing a blade and laying it into his throat.

"You asked for him," she said, dodging the question. "Why? What are you planning?"

"I could ask you the same," Loki snickered, laying a hand against her cheek. "Hiding out with your little friends, visiting in secret. Are you plotting against me, Lady Sif? Do you not have faith in your king?"

"_None. _And you are not my king."

He frowned and slapped her hand away, the knife clattering to the floor. His fingers trailed through her hair and she tensed, held her ground and refused to move away. It would kill her to acknowledge that he bothered her, that, perhaps, she even feared him, his capabilities, his role as king. Loki smiled, trying to imagine the Lady Sif, the most prominent woman in the realm, save his mother, with hands held to her mouth, cowering in the corner. What a far fetched idea it was.

His gaze softened, peering up at her with an almost innocent look.

"Do you miss him?" Loki whispered, and Sif bit her lip. "Does it pain you to know that the man you love is so very far away? That, good as you know him to be, he may never again find his way back home?" She swallowed, leaned back on her heels as those burning eyes of hers began to water. Uncertainty had easily won. "And, if he doesn't, what becomes of you? How will you go on, never knowing if he thought of you the same, waking in the dead of night to find that you were never there to serve?"

Silvertounge sighed with a nasty scowl. She'd dared raise her hand to him, King of Asgard, again. He could feel the sting where her nails had torn his skin. Sif flinched, his fingers knotted in her hair, tugging her head to the side until it touched the floor.

"Bastard," she hissed. "It is none of your concern!"

"Hush." A finger fell upon her lips. "You need not be cross, Lady Sif. I understand."

"Do you?!"

"Who else could? Fandral, perhaps?" A laugh. "He is all but oblivious to the sentiments of beautiful women." The smile faded, and Loki took her by the hand. "He is my brother, Lady Sif. And you are foolish to think that I do not care for him."

Her hazel eyes avoided his, fixated to the floor and tracing the patterns therein with unseen lines. "You will bring him home, then?"

"As I said, my first command cannot be to undo the Allfather's last. I would be disrespecting Asgard's true king." The words were bitter on his tongue, and Loki fought to maintain his facade, keep the Lady Sif under his control. "Would you ask me to do that, Sif? To undermine my father before his plans for Thor, for his benefit, have taken wing?"

The warrior woman shook her head.

"Then, I ask you, have patience. The time will come when Thor has served his punishment, redeemed himself. And, should the Allfather remain in the Odinsleep on that day, I will bring my brother home, relinquish unto him the rights of the throne."

She seemed to accept this, her eyes having lost all fight. And, watching her, seeing her so taken by his words, it was so hard not to smile.


	4. The Tree

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 4: **The Tree

* * *

The previous night, Sif had asked her friends to leave with her on horseback, and had led them out and into the clearing in the woods wherein they had used to train. The trees were still scarred from those days, with bark missing and the scrapes and dents from arrows and blades lodged deep within their trunks. Dismounting her horse, Sif had taken to fondly running her fingers across the marks, smiling and remembering the days in which they had finally turned to sparring with one another rather than inanimate objects.

The entirety of the night had been spent around campfire, laughing and telling jokes and stories. At one point, Fandral had teased that they ought to play a game of dares, and that the loser would have to go skinny dipping in the lake and swim on their back past the maid's chambers. Sif had thrown her sleeping roll at him then, stating that, if it was such a good idea, he ought to be the one to do it. He had quieted down significantly following that.

It was nearing mid-morning, and beneath the treetops she lay, staring up at the light that filtered so gently through and across her face, the strong scent of pine needles filling her nose. It was comforting to be here, surrounded not by glittering buildings and fawning servants, away from the distractions that were the civilization of Asgard. Perhaps it felt natural as, before becoming warrior of the kingdom, she had spend many of her days running through these same woods so as to escape the harsh treatment and foul words of men who believed her to be little more than their property. She smiled, silently musing to herself as to what she could do to such pigs were they to attempt such things now.

They now sat about discussing what was to become of them, of Asgard, now that Thor was gone. Surely, they could handle themselves well enough, but Sif had turned her attention to the state of the palace, acknowledging the distinct change in the staff therein. They had all turned for the worst, sneaking about and peering over their shoulders in fear.

"I do not like this," Fandral groaned, casting his gaze in her direction. "I do not like all this secrecy. It is unfitting of Asgard's warrior class. Dishonest."

Sif got to her feet and turned her back on him, not believing in the slightest what it was she was hearing. What did Fandral think went on behind their backs, in Loki's head as he spoke in whispers to the servants and the guards and threatened them? The man did not seek to benefit Asgard, aid those who had nothing, had little, ensure that the realm never again knew war. If nothing else, she believed that he sought a war, sought a means with which to prove himself to the Allfather, the king who could see and hear all that went on about him, laid silent and ill in his bedchambers.

"I do not feel right about this." Sif could almost see Fandral looking to the others, shaking his head. "Whether or not we agree with him, Loki is king so long as Odin and Thor are unable to hold to the realm."

"When did you become so close to your so-called king?!" Sif spat, turning to kick a pine cone at him. "Did that little swim with him in the lake rattle your brains further, fool?!"

The warrior stood, his light brow creased and eyes sharp as the point of his blade. He stepped towards her as though he might lay hand upon her, but clenched them into fists within his gloves, scowling as though he'd been bitten by serpents.

"In truth, I do not like him any more than you, Lady Sif," he said firmly, pointing at her. "But I will not play traitor to Asgard and distrust the decision which the Queen Frigga has made! Loki is a right foul git; we all know that! But to question him is to question our Queen and the Allfather, to boot! And, regardless of what you may say or do or think, I will not play into all this madness, and betray our kingdom so that you may settle some personal score!"

Volstagg immediately ceased with filling his mouth with blueberries, eyes turned up to stare as the ends of Sif's hair gently flitted to the ground. A moment, and she saw him glance to Hogun who bent over and collected them, coming to take hold of Fandral's sword arm and attempt to remove the blade from his grasp. Not a one of them had ever gone against the unspoken advice of Hogun the Grim, but the philanderer only scowled deeper and gave his fellow a solid shove, returning to holding the blade at her.

He had no time to blink before Sif stepped forward, curled her fingers under the plates of his pauldrons and pulled, bringing him to stumble towards her. She lifted her leg and gave his sword hand a solid kick with a boot, sending the blade flying off and into the dirt before pulling Fandral back up and slamming his back into a nearby tree.

"You pretend otherwise, Lady Sif," he huffed, anger still brimming in his eyes, "but we all surely know that grudge which you hold against him. For your hair, for meaning more to Thor than any of us ever could; than you could. Can you not understand that, perhaps, you are not meant to be a greater part of Thor's world?!"

"Enough!" Hogun growled, and pulled the two of them apart. He looked to Sif. "We have no time for this. If things are as you claim, Lady Sif, then we cannot allow discord to flourish among us. We must work as a team."

She nodded, still leering at Fandral who appeared to have bruised his pride more than anything else. The man snorted.

"Hogun is right," he said, retrieving his sword. "Even so, I cannot agree with everything you have said, Lady Sif. If anything, I believe that all this uncertainty may clear itself up in time." His eyes turned to the direction of the palace. "I imagine it must be wretched, being forced to watch a brother become lost, see your father fall..."

Her belongings already packed together, Sif mounted her horse and turned it towards the main road, insisting that she needed some time alone.

"Yes, miserable to be made king, to be handed your brother's birthright," she wanted to say, but held her tongue.

As she rode off, she thought that Heimdall would perhaps agree.

**# - # - # - #**

The distance was dotted with color, strewn with red and flecked with spots of gentle green and gold, the trees having changed their appearance almost overnight. Autumn had come about far too quickly, leaving her to wonder where in the Nine Realms brisk Spring and gentle Summer had gotten away to so soon. In the library the air was still, the space of table beside her empty save for the tray that had been settled atop the wood. It had sat there for nearly an hour now, untouched and waiting. A time or two, one of the maids had come by and asked if she would like it to be moved to the dining hall, but Frigga had insisted that it remain. He would be along soon, she had said, and looked away, returned herself to the book whose pages she had not turned even once.

It lay open with yellowed corners, the white of the spread pages marked with a number of illegible scribbles, all seeming to have something or other to do with the World Tree. He'd always been so fascinated with the cosmos, the Nine Realms, hanging on his father's every word when Odin would recount tales of his journeys through the war. Were they at table, Loki's meals would remain untouched and stay that way, eventually growing cold and being tossed out with the rest of the day's waste.

She turned with a start as he laughed, appearing over her shoulder and sending a shimmering bluebird from his hand to streak past her ear. It rested itself upon the windowsill, turning its tiny head as Loki sat, whistling and causing the bird to come and settle upon the corner of the book.

"Do you like it?"

Frigga smiled and took the bird in hand, the warmth from its fragile little body enough to make her believe it to be real. It looked up at her with tiny eyes that seemed to shift colors before it disappeared in a puff of silver smoke and feathers, a soft song left behind to linger in the air.

She cast her son a sideways glance, noting the way he watched her while the meal before him remained untouched. He didn't look pleased anymore.

"Why do you keep going back to see him," Loki said knowingly, head thrown back against the chair, "when he only serves to make you...?"

The last word was bit back and Frigga stared at the pages of the old tome, only looking up again as he drained the goblet and slammed it on the table, raising a hand and ushering to one of the servants to fill it once again. The process continued three times more before Frigga finally heard him breathe again. She said nothing and lifted the book in her hands, pushing it towards him with a curious glance.

"What's all this?" she asked, not bothering to answer his unfinished question. She motioned to the writing in the margins, watching as he blinked several times and stared.

"Speculation," Loki replied curtly, and again beckoned to the servant who, if this kept up, would have to run and fetch another pitcher of ale.

When his arm moved again, Frigga took hold of it, moving his fingers to graze the pages of the book. "Of what?"

Loki sighed, turning his head and peering out at the mountainside, still ignoring the tray before him. "I've been thinking," his voice was thoughtful, quiet, "Heimdall is no longer of use to Asgard."

That took Frigga by surprise and she swept out of the chair, coming around to look Loki in the eye. He was completely serious.

"Why would...?"

"The coronation, Mother," he said darkly, rattling the table with a fist. "The Jotunns should never have been able to enter Asgard. That troubles me."

Odin had said very much the same thing, though Frigga knew that her husband would never have thought to release the Gatekeeper of his duties. He had stood watch over the Bifrost from the beginning, long before Odin himself had been placed upon the throne by his own father. Worry was to be expected from such an event, but to even consider something of this magnitude... It was appalling.

She held to his sleeve, noting the way his eyes narrowed as they settled upon the golden dome far out at the edge of the horizon. Though Loki was king, Asgard his to protect and control, Frigga could not condone this; could not sit idly by and fret as he sought after a decision that could very well make their kingdom ever more vulnerable to invaders. He was not fully dressed, she realized, the material beneath her fingers that of his green tunic rather than the leather and metal of his bracers, but Frigga said nothing of it.

"You can't," she whispered, taking his face in her hands. "Who would you have to replace him? Heimdall has served Asgard from the beginning. Do not think that you can simply find another Gatekeeper. There are none."

"What would you have me do then? Sit upon my throne and but wring my hands, do nothing?" Loki shook his head. "No. The Gatekeeper's duty is the preservation of the safety of Asgard, and he has failed."

The queen's eyes went wide, looking to the book left forgotten upon the table. There were tales, she remembered, ancient stories of warriors and sorcerers of Asgard who had been told to have had the skill with which to part the very fabric of space, use Yggdrasil to their advantage and travel to other realms without use of the Bifrost. Could that have been within Loki's field of speculation?

She leaned over and tugged the book across the table, pushing the tray out of the way as he seemed to consider eating something, pulling it into his lap.

"The Tree," she said, sounding nothing short frantic. "What of the Tree? Have you not heard the stories, my son? Perhaps there are other ways..."

"Fairy tales," he said dismissively. "Even were they true, Heimdall is the only one who would have knowledge of beings with such power. And they would have had no need for him then."

The book was shut then, tossed across the table as he leaned forward, slammed the goblet upon the dark wood again and set about to eating as though they hadn't even had this conversation.

"You cannot simply dismiss him," she said, wishing that he would stop this obstinate behavior. He was growing more rash and undisciplined by the day. Perhaps it had not been a good idea to name him king. "Think of all that would come undone because of it."

"Am I not King of Asgard?" he asked, having broken an apple in his fist.

Frigga sighed. "You are, my son."

"Then I will do as I wish," Loki replied swiftly, leaned back and snatched the goblet up again. He raised it. "For the good of Asgard."


	5. He Who Knows All

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 5: **He Who Knows All

* * *

The horse reared as Sif tugged, far too hard, on the reins, rainbows bursting beneath its hooves on the glass-like surface of the bridge. She laid a hand into its mane, hushing it with a quiet voice and dismounting quickly, coming around to hold fast to its snout, feeling the hot and tired breath escape its nose as she gave the beast a pat. Sif spun herself around, listening to the barely audible sound of her own footsteps as she crossed the last length of the bridge herself, stepping into the great and decorated dome of the Bifrost. The Gatekeeper stood alert atop the platform at the center of the room, his golden eyes seeming to flash to life as she approached in silence.

"The Lady Sif," he said, still as a statue as his gaze turned to meet her own. "You are troubled."

It was a rather simple thing to forget that Heimdall saw all, unless, of course, any of the realm found themselves in some manner of mess. The warrior nodded, and set about to pace about the room, listening to the gentle buzz and hum of the Bifrost as it breathed with life, the floor shaking slightly beneath the soles of her boots. Though the Gatekeeper had surely seen her plight, Sif sought a way to best explain just how she was troubled. Heimdall, though very wise, did not appreciate when people came to him expecting that he simply solve their problems for them. They needed to work through such things themselves. Only then would he offer mild suggestions or give answers to questions.

She thought of the people, her friends, the palace servants, even weary Odin and fair Frigga, the portrait in her mind depicting them as little more than victims caught and shackled within a dark and dreary dungeon, clinging to the bars of their cells in hopes of freedom. Loki, of course, was the monster in all of this, lurking about in shadow, casting his spells and luring the unsuspecting in with that silver tongue. Sif grimaced. There had been more than one instance in which she would have liked nothing more than to cut it from his mouth.

"I fear for the people," she said finally, her tone firm and level. "They have not seen that which my eyes have, that which you surely know. Save the servants and the guards, they are all oblivious to the storm that brews on the horizon, threatens to swallow them and the peace that they so love."

Heimdall nodded, a seemingly fluid motion coming from a man so revered as he. The blade still held in his hands, he descended the steps, came to stand before her.

"You fear Asgard's new king," he said simply, and the Lady Sif nodded after a moment's hesitation. He turned from her, began walking about the circumference of the room before coming to stand behind her. "What is it you wish to know?"

"His intentions," Sif replied, far too quickly for her own liking. "That which is clear has been argued against, and I wish to know which party sees the truth."

Loki's plots were the first of many things which Sif wished to know. Second, and almost as importantly, she wanted to know why Fandral was suddenly so undecided, when, on many an occasions, he had voiced to their group his obvious dislike for some of the things Loki did. Even in the presence of Thor. But now, it seemed he was torn, unsure of who he should be siding with, not knowing where he stood and with whom. Her brow creased at the thought, now even more curious to know as to why Loki had summoned him and for what. They must have spoke of something, she thought. Perhaps Fandral had let something slip off that fool tongue of his. It would surely explain how Loki had known that she and the Warriors Three had been speaking of him, holding secret meetings and discussing the many flaws of his rule.

She had never seen the Gatekeeper look particularly grim, though it was difficult to tell as he was always rather stoic, but the expression he wore now frightened her somewhat, and Sif could feel her face begin to shift in disappointment. Heimdall took to the steps, came to stand atop the platform again, and peered down at her with what sounded like a sigh.

"They are hidden from me," he said, "like the invaders who entered our realm."

Sif swore bitterly under her breath and cast her eyes to the floor. She should have seen this coming herself. A master of magic, a craft which Thor and the others had called woman's craft in their youth, could have easily shielded himself from even the keen eyes of the almighty Gatekeeper. She scowled and looked up at him with a gentle nod.

"I thank you," she said, "for your aid," and turned to her steed again.

"Be warned, Lady Sif," the Gatekeeper warned, his deep voice echoing through the dome as Sif took hold of the reins. "Though I may not yet see the outcome, I fear that your actions do not go unnoticed."

**# - # - # - #**

There sat a bitter tang in Loki's mouth as he wandered the fields again, having managed to easily avoid his mother following their little exchange in the library. He was king, he could not care for and heed every word, every suggestion, what spilled forth from her mouth. Regardless of her intentions, the decision was his to make alone. He had slipped back to his chambers, having found that his clothing had been cleaned and hung out to dry, and had dressed before whisking himself silently through the gilded halls and into the heat of the sun.

The child who had been given the task of feeding and tending to the horses sat atop the fence on the far side of the field, eyes growing visibly wide as he caught sight of the king, hopping down and running back to the stables, the leather whip held tightly in his hand. Loki frowned, suddenly wondering why in the Nine Realms people, particularly women, were so taken with children. They were noisy, they were messy, they didn't do what you asked them to the first time you gave the instruction, and so on. Not even a decade earlier, his mother had set about pestering he and Thor, questioning as to which of their many beautiful lady friends they would set about to wed. Loki had nearly laughed aloud at the question, remembering that the queen was likely not aware of the fact that their "lady friends" were little more than squealing distractions from sleep. He had, of course, said nothing.

He had long since decided that, were he to ever find a suitable woman, there would be no need to have little beasts running about. But now that decision did, naturally, leave the question of an heir.

Life was just full of impossibilities.

As Loki drew near to the stables, he could smell the fresh hay as the boy moved to hurriedly shovel it into the stalls, trembling as the king came and leaned against one of the wooden beams.

"No hello?" he chuckled, watching the child with a smile. The boy seemed to shake even harder as he turned, face red and eyes wide with fear. Loki shook his head, unfastening the latch of the gate. "Relax." He gave the boy a pat. "I was only joking."

He heard a shaky sigh escape the child's form, followed swiftly by the sound of him sifting through the hay again. Heavy footsteps echoed through the stable, his father's horse rearing up with a snort. Loki reached out and stroked the beast's muzzle, shushing Sleipnir as he began to whinny nervously. It was like that he had not been let out of this confining space for quite a time, as he remained loyal to Odin alone. He'd seen many times how difficult it could be for the servants to trap him in even a corner of the field, keep the horse and his many legs from trampling them to death.

"Poor thing," he whispered, stroking Sleipnir's made. The horse made a contented sound. "Locked up all alone."

If there was one thing Loki had certainly done right for the Allfather, it had been conjuring such a beast out of nothing but the core and silver dust of a slowly dying star, wrapping it in bone and muscle and giving it speed with which to serve only a king. Sleipnir's making had been nothing like those ridiculous rumors that circled about, the sort that made Loki cringe and wish to vomit. He shook his head, deciding that he would not think on such things. The steed of the great Odin had been created out of nothing more than beauty. How else could he streak across the Nine Realms and shine like the beams of the sun?

The beast was given another gentle pat before he turned, leaving the boy to distribute oats and water to the horses as Loki magicked himself back into the palace, startling the guards who stood watch outside Odin's chamber. Such a thing would have ordinarily pleased him, but he was no longer the mood for smiles and tricks.

He brushed past them without a word, opening the great doors with a hard shove. The two steps were avoided, his feet touching the flat and polished floor as soon as he walked into the room, leaving the guards to close the doors behind him as Loki moved to Odin's bedside. He grimaced, the heat of the curtain of light leaving his brow dotted with sweat as his hand rested upon the god's arm. The Allfather surely looked the part of a dying old man, dressed all in white and laid beneath warm furs, face quiet and worn as though he were made of paper.

It had been told in tale only that, while in the Odinsleep, he could see and hear everything about him; that nothing, even the drop of a pin, escaped the Allfather's notice; that, upon his awakening, he could recall everything as though he had been lively and alert all the while. It made Loki wonder if the same could be said for everything else. Could Odin see all that went on about the palace, about the whole of Asgard? He frowned at the thought, hoping that that idea was just a product of his imagination and nothing more. Eyes closed, his hand moved to the god's shoulder.

"He is gone," he whispered, "but he is all they think about. Their eyes follow me, and yet they wonder how dear Thor would handle Asgard. They have no faith in me, in your decision. But I will prove them wrong, Father. I will show them that even the most unlikely of creatures can stand as king."

Loki thought on the episode within the Relic Chamber, heard his own words ring so clearly in his head, his accusation. That Odin had given him false hope for a birthright, had never intended to grant him the throne even were he to have proven himself time and again. That his so-called father could never have given him more than lies. He, monster and outcast. And Loki feared that, were his mother's speculation true, were Odin to never again awaken, he would never have an answer to the questions that plagued him.

* * *

Going back and proofreading this, I've found that my favorite line was that about Sleipnir being crafted out of a star. Somehow, I wish that was legend. It could be just me, but thinking on watching a black or white dwarf star being fashioned into life gives me chills.


	6. She Found Him

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 6: **She Found Him

* * *

Sif opened her eyes, blinked, found herself on the streets of the city. Shops were closed up, the marketplace barren, leaving her in cold silence, in the darkness of the night as the stars flashed high up above. The sky sat clear, and with her hand she could have drawn lines to all the constellations, named them with ease. She turned, hearing the rattling of a stone against pavement, and saw him, standing in silence and seeming to glow, smiling at her. She ran, asked him how he'd gotten back, what he had seen in the mortal realm. But Thor only laughed, pulled away from her grasp and mounted his horse, took off through the city with Sif following quickly at his heels.

Up the steps to the palace he went, jumping off his steed with a glance back at her and charged through the hallways, still laughing as she stumbled after. He ran to the throne room, pushing the doors open as though they were nothing to him but soft curtains, and easily seated himself in the gilded chair, peering down at her with mirth. Sif took the steps two at a time, coming to stand beside Thor with a satisfied grin. She had thought of him every day since his departure, wanted to know everything he had seen, had learned, but there was nothing for her to say, nothing to do but lean into him and let his arms surround her.

As if by his brother's magic, she found herself seated in his bedchambers, bare and coiled up in his sheets, watching him with longing and uncertainty. Just how long had she dreamed of this, wished for him to ask for her hand, to have her stand at his side as he was named heir to Odin's throne. Thor reached for her, fingers curling around her wrists and pulled her close, the skin of his shoulder warm as she felt her cheek fall against it. With one hand, he tilted her chin up, laid his lips against hers, Sif's eyes nearly bursting from her skull.

Almost every day since he had accepted her as a boy, told her that she was just as welcome to play with him as any other, she had loved him, longed to win his affections and be his friend, stand beside him for as long as her legs would hold her weight.

He began to touch her, starting at the base of her neck and moving down, fingers teasing as he went about silently counting the vertebrae in her back. Sif stiffened, his hand sliding to cup her backside, letting lose a sigh as he kissed her again.

How strange it was that her dreams, her desires, would come to her as reality, come out of nowhere and sweep her into Thor's arms. It was almost too good to be real.

He laughed then, not the usual sultry sound, but hard and dark, as though she'd gone and done something terribly stupid. Thor pulled away then, left her to sit with the sheets draped about her shoulders as he stood, now clad in full armor as he stepped backwards, disappeared into the shadows with a devilish smile upon his usually kind face.

_"How many times have you dreamed of him..."_ she heard that voice whisper, _"taking Thor as your own?"_

Sif scowled, tugged the sheets over her exposed flesh and turned her head away. This was all a lie, some fabrication likely forced into her head by that smirking bastard. He knew, must have always known, what she felt for his brother. And he now saw fit to torture her with it.

The vision melted before her eyes, leaving Sif back in her own bedchambers, gaping and covered in sweat. Her head turned every which way, inspecting the room in hopes that she might find Loki, have reason to go after him again and, as she had done as a girl, beat him until he bled.

But, to her chagrin, he was nowhere, and she was left to settle back into bed, to hope for a mind that remained blank for the remainder of the night.


	7. There Is Nothing To Fear

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 7: **There Is Nothing To Fear

**A/N: **I've had this chapter finished since Sunday. I just didn't care enough to post it because I've been treating every night of the last week like it's New Year's Eve. And there has been way too much caffeine in my system. Yeah... Happy New Year.

* * *

Tiny lights burst in his head like fireworks, hot and searing even as no light flooded through the room. It had stormed the whole night long, leaving a cool and sweet-smelling breeze to waft through the windows, cause him to believe that sleep would be peaceful. It had been anything but. He had dreamed, so very vividly, of that blackened expanse of earth, surrounded by mountains what must have been dead, the crumbling ruins of an ancient city once as grand and advanced as that of Asgard. They had come crawling after him, like hungry termites from the woodwork, red eyes gleaming as they dragged him, frightened and screaming, back into their holes. Following that, there had been nothing of Jotunheim. Just a great black abyss of nothingness, echoing with the sound of shuddering breath as he had been unable to speak.

He could hear them now, their muffled voices, calling his name, could see them hovering over him from so high up, faces painted over with surprise, one turning his covered head and hurrying away towards something Loki could not see. There was a curtain, he noticed, hanging behind the one that had remained, holding a warmth that could not have been that of the wayward sun. She appeared then, hair hanging over her shoulder in a long golden spiral, her blue eyes appearing transparent as he blinked, gathered his wits about him. She drew closer as Loki pushed himself up, lightheaded and realizing that he sat on the floor near Odin's bedside.

The king frowned, certain that he'd headed back to his bedchambers following the words spoken to his father. But everything around him insisted that it was quite the contrary, that he must have dozed off amid attempting to decipher the Allfather's bizarre ways of reasoning.

Screaming came from down the hall, as though it were the polished blade what cut into the soft butter of his aching head. He could hear her, demanding to know what in the hell he'd done, what act of trickery he had bestowed upon her in order to conjure up such lies. The others, of course, had followed along, and they could be heard attempting to usher the woman away, silence her. Fandral, being perhaps the wisest of the four at the moment, could be heard hissing quietly at the Lady Sif about holding her tongue and not causing such a damned ruckus. The notion was appreciated, but there was nothing to stop such an angry woman from speaking her mind.

Loki suddenly thought that it had been quite the mistake made by Odin to allow such an outspoken young maiden to rise and become a prominent member of the warrior class. Surely, it had not come back for the Allfather, but it was turning out to be a problem for Loki what seemed eager to nip him in the backside.

She appeared in the doorway, Fandral's hands closed around her ankles as she dragged him along the floor, stopped only by the pointed spears of the guards who turned to face her.

Her untimely interruptions were getting rather old.

"What is it now, Lady Sif?" he muttered, hoping that she wasn't to start shouting again.

"Do not play coy!" she shot back, squirming and coming dangerously close to kicking Fandral in the face. The guards closed in. "You... You know what you've done! Are you so much a coward that you cannot admit to your wrongdoings in the presence of even your slaves?!"

Now she was just taking advantage, expecting that he'd hold his tongue in the presence of Asgard's queen.

Frigga, of course, looked quietly at him, suspicious. Loki shook his head with the utmost honesty. He had no idea what she was talking about. He moved to stand, but her hand fell upon him, a silent order that he remain still. She knew that his own temper would only serve to worsen the situation.

"This is not the place," she said, motioning sadly to the Allfather. "Whatever this matter may be, it will have to wait."

Sif said nothing and Loki only scowled, knowing that she was like to think him far more of a coward for allowing his mother to come to his rescue. It was not, in the slightest, her opinion that mattered to him, but Frigga's constant interference. Somehow, he would have to put a stop to that.

He waved and the guards set their weapons at ease, allowing Fandral to take Sif by the arm and quietly lead her back down the hall, casting a passing glance his way before the doors shut again. Silvertongue pulled himself up, settled back against the Allfather's bedside, watching his mother with silent eyes as she followed suit, coming to seat herself opposite him. She reached through the light to touch his hand, and appeared then to be on the brink of tears, sucking in a breath and holding it until such a time as she thought herself capable of speaking.

They were like to have yet another discussion about the man laid helpless before them.

"You should not be here," he said, fingers curling into his palms.

Perhaps he could find reason enough to ban her from this part of the palace, keep her occupied elsewhere, but he knew she would not stand for it. And why would she? It was a stupid thought, a cruel one, to imagine forcing her away from Odin, the man with whom she had spent near the entirety of her existence, and Loki found himself feeling increasingly guilty.

_Stupid._

"You are not troubled by war, by Heimdall," she whispered, ignoring his words, and Loki wondered if, even in his trance, the Allfather was hearing her, perhaps growing suspicious. "But you fear–"

"I fear nothing."

What a lie that was. Loki had always feared his brother, being proven useless by Thor and all his talent, being left to stand at the wayside and watch that glory carry on. And now, tormented even in sleep by these visions, nightmares, he feared that the whole of Asgard would find means to uncover the High One's falsehoods, grow to hate him further.

"And what have I to fear?" he went on, forcing a smile with which to put her at ease. "The Frost Giants? What can they do, trapped and fading away in the dark without their Casket to aid them?" Loki stood, set about pacing the length of the room. "They entered Asgard once. Never again. Not while I am here."

"If they did..." she choked, squeezing Odin's hand, "what would you do?"

Silvertongue stood behind her now, peered over her shoulder at the Allfather, seemingly content in slumber. She would break, he thought, were he to lay hand on her now.

"Leave that for when the time comes," he said, and whispered the words spoken to him as a boy: _"There is nothing... nothing to fear."_


	8. Far Too Deep

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 8: **Far Too Deep

**A/N: **This should have been up last night, but I was out and had no internet all day, so I just came straight home and passed out.

* * *

Despite the sun's presence, that same freezing bite had remained in the air even as Fandral had returned to his chambers, stayed there for the whole of the day, thinking. He had attempted to regain some of the sleep lost the night before, that which had been spent on rethinking his entire standpoint, but had found none, decided it best to try and read something, anything, and clear his head. That had served no point either, his eyes having wandered idly across the same six lines for well over two hours before the warrior had snapped the book shut and let it fall to the floor. And yet, though he had wasted it away sitting on the corner of his bed in deep thought, the day had whizzed past, the warm colors of the setting sun streaming through his window when Volstagg had come and asked that he join them on a ride down to the seaside, perhaps partake in a bit of dinner.

Fandral had agreed, settled himself into casual clothing far more comfortable than his stiff armor, and had followed the other man out to the stables and mounted his horse, ignoring the passive glance of Hogun and the fury of Sif as though they were one and the same.

Sitting idly by in the sand, they sat watched as she paced now, on the verge of manic, before turning swiftly on her heel. Beneath her boots, the soft sand fell in, sucking her feet in up to the ankle. Lifting one leg, a quick kick sent waves of the soft earth scattering in the light wind, the hefty warrior coughing as it entered his lungs, insisting that she not do that again. Fandral said nothing, hovered quietly behind as Volstagg then attempted to climb from the sand onto the rickety little dock, turning only to look hopefully at Hogun as he knelt and placed stones in a circle as a makeshift fire pit. Of course, the man was hungry again.

It was with a kind smile, the most sincere he'd displayed in days, that Fandral stared at the dock, taking to climbing onto the old wood himself as Volstagg promptly gave up. They had all sat here often as children, easily finding far more wonder in watching the sun set beyond the salty sea than in finishing lessons or reading thick tomes in the palace.

He thought it best to maintain a fair distance from Sif, granted how many disagreements they'd had in so short a time. From her position across the beach, Sif glowered at him, her lips appearing to be sewn shut as she promptly looked away once their eyes met. He would say nothing, Fandral decided, for the whole of the night if he had to, as it was likely that the four of them would remain here together until such a time came for them to retire to bed. He did not want yet another argument to deal with. Perhaps, Fandral thought, he could find some fair maiden to help occupy his thoughts later on, maybe wear himself out with her and slip easily into the realm of sleep. But, the more he turned the idea about in his head, the more the warrior realized that he just didn't care enough to try. A first, as his friends would have surely said.

There were a great many things that should have occupied his head, but they were all lost the instant he turned his gaze back out to the sea, watching as the sun dropped behind the line of foaming water. Even were Asgard to change completely, to give way to all manner of insanity, Fandral had doubts that her landscapes would differ at all. A rather bittersweet comfort.

The sound of a cracking twig caught his attention, head on a swivel as his eyes met Hogun's, the other motioning him to join them around the now bursting fire. It was with reluctance that Fandral did so, seating himself just out of the circle while still being able to drain the cold from his bones.

She looked at him through the flame, as if daring him to speak. The man had half a mind to stand and leave, mutter to himself that she was being rather unfair about all of this, insisting that the four of them discuss the situation without so much as listening to a word he said. Biting the inside of his cheek, Fandral silently declined Volstagg's offer for a bit of duck, and sighed.

"Did you ever once think, Sif, that not everything is Loki's doing?"

The woman shot needles at him with her eyes, and Fandral imagined that, were they real, he would be sitting in one of the healing rooms with burn scars. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Fandral shrugged, hands held just over the flickering flame. "Suppose, for a moment, that the sun were to stop shining. Would you, by any stretch of the imagination, charge into the throne room and accuse him of hiding it away?"

She grimaced, and Fandral knew he was still shoveling away, digging himself deeper into the pit that, soon, would be his end.

"I'm not saying you're wrong," he added quietly, looking back over his shoulder at the sky. It had grown dark now, the sun not even a dot upon the spill of color that was the horizon. The foam of the sea crept ever closer, the smell of the salt easily overshadowing that of the warm flame. They had come here often in hopes of catching fish twice their size, determined to do so with only the aid of twigs and a weak amount of string, each piece with a crumb of bread tied to the end. Fandral tried not to smile. "I just... I'm only doing as Thor would. I'm trying to be fair about all of this."

Even the fire seemed to quiet down at that, all eyes cast into the orange glow. For as long as he was away, there would never not be a weight hanging over them as Thor's name was spoken. Surprisingly, Volstagg leaned over his plate and spat, leaving a wad of uneaten meat lying in the sand, his hand tipping and dropping the rest of the tiny bird into the flame, watching as it quickly burned up, the brittle little bones soon reduced to no more than fine black slivers. Fandral's eyes widened as the bearded warrior leaned forward, elbows resting upon his knees as he pressed his hands against his face.

The philanderer felt his jaw drop.

"Are... Are you _crying_, Volstagg?"

The larger man lifted an arm and gave him a hefty shove, sending him back into the sand. "No," came the reply, accompanied with a shaky breath. "It's... It's not right, all of this. Here we sit, said to be the finest warriors in the realm, and all you two can do is bicker with one another over that which we have no control."

"But I wasn't–"

Fandral heard him swallow. "We should be living up to our titles with honor, preparing for the future of Asgard, seeking a way to bring Thor home. Not quarreling, throwing all that we care about beneath our feet."

He made no reply, made no move to sit upright as he watched Volstagg go to mount his horse while Hogun quietly stood and began a stroll across the sand. It was only when the two were far enough away that Fandral felt the unrestrained tension of being alone with Sif. Chancing a glance across the fire, he saw that her eyes were not alight now, but dark as the coal that had so swiftly burned up.

"He is right," she said, and Fandral thought it a joke. Were they to go back a century or so, she would have simply pummeled him into blind submission to prove her point. "This is ridiculous."

He had half a mind to nod, but did nothing, moving only to draw little shapes and figures in the sand with a finger.

"What do we do, then?" Fandral asked. He did not look up. "How are we to discuss the matters at hand if we only serve to anger each other?"

The flame seemed to jump as a gentle wind began to blow, the sound of skittering sand stretching across the seaside.

She did not answer him, and Fandral was left to assume that there was no way to change things. It was as simple as it was complicated: They would not speak to one another of such things.


	9. The Stars

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 9: **The Stars

**A/N: **Everybody should have one of those "I Do What I Want!" Loki shirts. If you don't have one, you should buy one soon. They're great.

* * *

Brightly they burned, appearing so close in the great black expanse that she could perhaps reach out and pluck one from their collective, hold it tightly in her hand and allow the light of the twinkling star to light the room for the whole of the night. But they were too far away, too great to touch and be harnessed even by a goddess. It was with a downcast gaze that she acknowledged this, the end of the curtain held between her fingers, the soft fabric offering a sort of comfort. His smell, she realized, had nearly faded throughout the majority of the palace, and the queen could only catch light whiffs of it when she stood out in the sun by the training yard or wandered through the armory. But here, in this great wide room full of all the things that had ever held his fingerprints, he was everywhere, in everything.

Odin had not been the only one to occupy her thoughts and dreams since this had all began. She had seen him too, standing at the end of a long and dusty road, only to be pulled quickly away by the nightmare realm and thrown through the cold of space, leaving her to watch him hurtle down towards the planet, quickly consumed by the great masses of color what covered it. The dream, of course, had only come to her following Loki's explanation of the event, his vivid description of the way his brother had disappeared through the Bifrost to Midgard in a bursting mass of light and color, and she had since wondered exactly why the Allfather had sent his son, the one which whom he was so deeply connected, away.

In fact, she had argued with him often following Thor's banishment, and, after Odin's fall, had regretted every minute of it. Not her opinion that Thor should have been punished in some other way, but the fact that they had wasted time shouting at one another.

Under Frigga's insistence, no one had been granted entry to Thor's chambers since the day he had gone, leaving it untouched save for her own frequent visits. The queen sat now in the chair that had graced the room for years, the very same in which she would sit and cradle the headstrong Son of Odin, try to hush him in the night when the sound of the wind whistling through the trees outside would wake and frighten him. She had even held them both in this chair as small children, sometimes afraid to sleep without the immediate presence of the other, watching as her boys slipped away again, their little hands clinging tightly to one another.

They were, and always would be, her precious little stars.

It was the gentle sound of a knock at the door what startled her out of that reverie, the great barrier parting to allow entry.

The Gatekeeper said nothing as he appeared, made no move to enter the room, seemingly content with standing like a stone in the doorway. His golden eyes seemed to gleam in the torchlight, hands still and holding fast to his blade while hers began to tremble, so much like the leaves that had started to fall from the trees.

"You wished to see me."

He blinked and Frigga nodded, her fingers curling around the carved arm of the chair. When she had first requested the Gatekeeper's presence, the queen had possessed a vague outline of that which she had asked to speak with him about. Everything from the Frost Giants' entry into Asgard right down to her concern for the words spoken by Loki days before. But now, she could not, for the life of her, remember just what that was. Silence passed between them for several minutes, and Frigga could not discern whether or not Heimdall had grown bored or it. He always held to that same impassive gaze.

"Has my son been to see you?" she asked, the thought returning to her.

The god shook his head slowly, as though he were more a machine than a living being. "He has not."

Frigga could hear the suspicion in those words, felt rather uneasy as she thought to tell him what Loki had said.

Her fingers traced the carvings in the dark wood, the thin shapes of foul beasts and kings, the stories of the past all etched into such a beautiful piece. Thor had used to pepper her with all manner of questions, wanting to know the names of every king from the beginning, what they had done to earn the throne, how strong they had been, and so on. Loki would sit beside him on the floor, look up at her with observant eyes and hoard all the knowledge deep inside his little skull, speaking up only when he wasn't satisfied with a story or an answer. Thor would grab him then, yank him to his feet and play pretend, play at war, say that they were going to race to the throne, that they would stay together no matter who got there first. It had warmed Frigga's heart.

The Gatekeeper shifted slightly, his breath so quiet that she often suspected that he didn't need air at all.

She stood, moved to the window and leaned outside, staring off into the distance at the great golden dome of the Bifrost. The bridge seemed to shine even brighter in the dark, the rainbow hues of the glass-like surface appearing alive. Someday soon, the queen thought, she would stand at one of these very windows, waiting for Thor to come home. She would look to the bridge and see them, the dark shapes of the horses moving steadily through the sunset, their hooves echoing with a faint buzz as lights burst beneath them, her boys racing home and laughing together as they always had. On that day, Frigga would run through the halls, disregard all who called to her, charge outside and hold to them both, content to never again let go.

"You fear him."

Breath left the queen then, her arms folded across her chest as she turned slowly. Heimdall did not waver in his gaze as he stared back at her, appearing somewhat grave with his brow gently furrowed. The golden armor clacked together as he seemed to stand taller, head held high.

Frigga had mind to send him away, to not respond to the statement and pretend that the night had held no events out of the ordinary. But it was true to an extent. She would not say that she feared her son, but feared for him, feared what he could become, what he could and could not do. Over the past several decades, Loki had grown cold, had taken the supposedly friendly competition with his brother far more personally than he ever should have. He'd antagonized Thor numerous times, though he liked to pretend that he knew nothing of the trouble which his brother had a penchant for getting into. But Frigga knew him like the back of her hand, had always seen the gentle gleam in his eyes as his father had berated Thor for his foolishness. She had known, almost every time, when he'd backed Thor into a corner with his words, slyly persuaded him to rush headlong into something that would only end badly.

Now the queen wondered if he'd done the same thing on the day of the coronation, pushed Thor to lead vain assault upon Jotunheim.

It was with a knot in her chest that Frigga shook her head, hardening her blue eyes as best she could in hopes of maintaining a believable facade. But, even were she to fool everyone else, Heimdall was sure to know.

"He will come to you," she said quietly, and turned her back on him once more. She wished Loki wouldn't, but she knew better. The Gatekeeper said nothing as he moved slowly out into the hall again, and Frigga sighed, "In time."

But time was what she feared the most.


	10. Heart Attack

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 10: **Heart Attack

* * *

"I take it you two didn't speak long."

He winced, light streaming into his eyes, flipping over beneath the sheets and yanking a flattened pillow over his head. Fandral groaned into the mattress, a sound nearly inaudible even to his own ears, having no clear idea as to what it was he had thought to say to the other man, though it made more sense than not to think that he'd been telling Volstagg to get the hell out and let him sleep for even five minutes longer. Whether or not the bearded warrior understood, he stomped over to the side of the bed, slipped his hands under the mattress and lifted it, sending Fandral tumbling to the floor with a yelp.

The blond made an irritated sound, caught up in the sheets like a caterpillar in a cocoon, flopping onto his back as Volstagg set about to putting the bed back, chuckling aloud to himself about the fact that, were Fandral to sprout horns and a small tail, he could perhaps pass him off as a great stag from a late night kill. The philanderer moaned again, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head, which had struck rather hard.

Looking up at his friend, the man found that he was just as jolly as ever, that rosy color on his cheeks and a smile upon his face as he lifted Fandral to his feet and turned to cross the room, tossing him the pants and a tunic that had been left on the floor.

"What was that?" Fandral said, still feeling rather dazed as he yanked the tunic over his head.

Volstagg snickered, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Oh, I'm sorry," he laughed. "I suppose it was rather rude of me to expect you to hear over the sound of your own snoring."

The warrior gave a grim smile and set to yanking on his pants. "You snore, old fellow," he retorted, tossing his nightshirt across the room. "A gentleman does not."

"Gentleman?" the bearded man parroted, shaking his head. "Yes, because the gentlemen in all of Asgard take to bedding sobbing damsels in hopes of hearing their screams."

Fandral made a face, his lower lip sticking out in a manner similar to that of a pouting child. As they hadn't seen each other since Volstagg had stormed off the night before, it was rather difficult for him to believe that the man could have possibly known about the little venture that Fandral had invested in. Although, given that the room smelled heavily of vanilla, among other things, and that a pale pink ribbon had been fastened to the hilt of his sword, it was rather stupid to think that Volstagg wouldn't notice. For, even a child, in all of his ignorance, could have deduced that something had gone on within the chambers between dusk and dawn.

He crossed the room and tugged on his boots, gloves and bracers following soon after. "Now, what was it that you said before, old boy? Something about Sif, was it?"

Volstagg rolled his eyes, quickly muttering something about the maiden's screaming having damaged Fandral's ears. He ignored the comment.

"I said that the two of you must not have spoken long."

The words were met with a quick nod as Fandral swept a hand through his hair. They hadn't said more than a few words to one another before Sif too had finished her meal and thrown the remains into the fire. For a time, he had remained on the beach with the distant Hogun, kicking off his boots and wading through the foam of the waves and feeling shells and sand beneath his feet. It had made him realize, standing there and staring up at the moon, that so much had changed from the time of their golden days. They had not only grown in stature and skill, but their ideas, even their personalities, had changed to some extent. Things were certainly not the way they had been before, and they were sure to never be again.

It was saddening.

"She didn't hit you again, did she?" Volstagg asked when he did not respond. "Did you fight again?"

The warrior shook his head and smiled. Aside from the private little chat he'd had with Sif following his adventures in the lake, and the spat in the woods, Fandral could honestly say that she hadn't struck him in some time. And that was a habit that he was pleased Sif had seemed to have outgrown.

"I'm not entirely sure, to be honest with you," Fandral replied with raised brows. "I suppose we agreed to disagree." A snort. "Not that that will do anyone any good..."

The bearded man shrugged. "Best not to talk about it, I guess. Wouldn't want you to end up with yet another black eye."

Fandral turned on the heel of his boot and made another face. "That was _once,_" he said firmly, pointing a finger at his friend, "and it was an accident."

It had been sometime during their third or even fourth decade, running through the forest and challenging one another to races up and down the cracked rock faces. Thor had taken in hand a twig, broken it into pieces and explained that the two who drew the longest and shortest pieces would race first. The luck of the draw had not been with Fandral that day, having drawn one of the two twigs and ended up being pitted against Sif. Before they had set off, Loki had sported a smirk, shooting off his mouth and insisting that the two of them climb the rocks and back down before taking to the tops of the tallest of the trees. The winner would end up with the loser's desert come dinner.

Fandral had grimaced, disappointed that he had to go and race a girl, and had kicked dirt into her face as soon as Thor had told them to start, leaving her behind to cough and scream at him as to what a dirty cheater he was. While he had made it up the rocks and back before her, when it came time to climb the trees, Sif had caught up, had been right on his tail as he scrambled up and onto a high branch, grabbing hold of his ankle and throwing him to the ground, leaving him to struggle for breath while she won the race.

She had yelled at him then, set to punching him when he'd told her she was nothing but a weak little girl. Fandral had gone home that night with a black eye and a fat lip.

Volstagg chuckled, remarking that Fandral had cried quite a bit following the race, as he had lost not only ended up bleeding, but had lost the rights to his desert as well. The blond warrior scowled and tried to ignore him.

"But in all seriousness," the bearded man said, wiping a tear from his eye, "how are we supposed to carry on these meetings if the two of you can't speak to one another?"

Fandral sighed, leaving the breastplate of his armor on the floor as he came to stand at the side of his bed, scooping up the sheets and tossing them back onto the mattress.

"Perhaps I can tell you then?" he said. Volstagg nodded, and Fandral sat down. He laced his fingers together, leaning over to rest elbows upon his knees. "I do not think the Sif is wrong in her beliefs, but I do find her to be a bit overzealous. As to how you and Hogun feel about all this, I don't know. But I feel that it would be best to sit back and wait for a time, rather than parade ourselves before Loki and end up on the receiving end of any malicious decisions."

Volstagg nodded, began stroking his beard, and Fandral could have sworn that he heard the man's stomach growling. Based on the smell that suddenly began emanating off him, it was a sure fact that, before stepping in for a visit, he had eaten a good deal of pork.

"It is not unreasonable," came the reply. "Quite the contrary. In fact, I'd prefer to wait him out myself, see if the Allfather doesn't wake and put Asgard at ease."

Fandral smiled.

"That does not mean I am on your side," Volstagg added quickly, looking very urgent. "I'd rather not get sucked into the madness between you two."

"Don't worry your silly little head about it," Fandral chuckled, giving the other man a sharp pat on the cheek. "So far as I'm concerned, there are no sides. Only differences of opinion."

The bearded warrior smiled, clasped the blond man on the shoulder and insisted he finish putting on his armor, as they had not enjoyed a good hunt together in quite some time. Fandral laughed. He couldn't help but agree.

**# - # - # - #**

How many times she had wanted to shield him, lock him in a cage, keep him a little boy forever, Frigga did not know. Far too many, she was sure, for Loki's liking. Even now, given the recent way he had taken to watching her as though she were but an assassin who sought after his life. Regrettably, that had been inevitable from the moment of Odin's fall, the day he had been named as king, had sworn loyalty to the throne and the people of Asgard. She had heard the whispers, those that came into the palace with the servants from the heart of the city, the obvious distrust and questioning that had been certain to follow the next king, regardless of his standing in the kingdom. It was surely difficult for the people to trust a man who was known by name alone and not deed, and so, she suspected, that he feared them as well, thought that someone might come and kill him in the night.

And that led right back to her desires to protect him.

Sitting across the table, Frigga said nothing, made no move to touch even the gleam that bounced of the silver handle of her knife. She kept her eyes low, tracing the pattern about the edge of the plate, listening to the distant metallic sound as the utensils touched Loki's teeth.

He looked tired, as though he'd run off with his brother in the dead of night to make a game of hunting, see who could come back home by first light with the most impressive kill as they had done so very often in the past. But she made no comment, had held her tongue for days, having noted the gentle twitch of his eye and crease in his brow when even the servants whispered Thor's name. As such, she had not dared to ask Heimdall how he had been faring the previous night, for she was certain that Loki must have known that the Gatekeeper had entered the palace, for it seemed he had eyes and ears in every wall.

And, as the days passed, each without mention of the elder prince's name, the more Frigga found that she could not remember what it sounded like passing through her own lips.

The queen lifted her gaze, coming to stare across the room as Loki smiled, leaned forward on a hand as the servant girls busied themselves about the table. His sharp eyes followed one of them as he began to hum, tunes of the old war songs, eventually craning his neck to watch as she swept out of the room, with a smile and a light blush upon her cheeks. Frigga wasn't sure if she was meant to feel relief for the fact that Loki was finally coming out of his shell to take notice of beautiful young women again, or if she needed to be appalled by that telltale glint in his eye. The sort that had always given Thor and his midnight exploits away.

Within the next ten minutes, the girl returned three times more, pretending to polish various accents in the room, and, at least once, allowed the hanging sleeve of her gown to graze the back of Loki's hand. A gesture that he had seemed more than happy to permit.

"Did you sleep well?" Frigga finally said, her hand closing around the glass of water that sat beside the plate.

Without taking his eyes off the girl, who seemed to be making quite the show of herself for him, Loki nodded. "Of course."

She made no mention of the color beneath his eyes, as it was now very obvious that he'd decided to busy himself with the maiden behind closed doors in the dead of night. It certainly explained the mark that held to the pale skin beneath the collar his tunic. Frigga sighed. It had never been unusual for her sons to please themselves with women, but she couldn't help wishing that at least one of them would cease his games and commit already. Even so, the queen was certain that the giggling young servant girl would not find her place as the wife of Asgard's king.

"I've been thinking," he said, looking away from the girl and allowing his head to rest against the back of the chair. "Heimdall is clearly not to blame for the Jotunns' unfortunate arrival."

Frigga felt her heart skip a beat, the glass falling from her hand and to the floor, sending shards skittering across the room. The servant girl immediately set to cleaning it up.

"How so?"

Loki moved his wrist about slowly, the handle of the spoon held between two fingers as he began to stir the contents of his own glass, staring lazily at the spiraling liquid. "Suppose you were right, Mother," he said. "Perhaps there have been those among the Aesir with the uncanny ability to traverse the cosmos, bypass the Bifrost."

The queen nodded, keeping her steady gaze upon him. He had dismissed the stories as little more than fairy tales in the days before, having made it clear that he thought the idea alone to be ridiculous and useless. Why would he suddenly concede to her suggestions? He never had before, having always been stubborn enough to put himself through the wringer before admitting, with only his eyes, that she had been right. Loki had never actually come out and told her that he had been wrong.

Then again, he wasn't actually saying so.

A thoughtful look bloomed on his face, and he turned his head to the left as if to peer out at the Bifrost, though it lay out the windows behind him.

"The Frost Giants," he said suddenly. "Laufey said... that there are traitors in the House of Odin... What if–?"

Frigga stood, the dishes clattering as her hands hit the table hard, heart pounding in her chest as though it sought to make a hole. "Do not say such things," she said, teeth chattering as the queen pursed her lips. "Your brother would not... Thor would never–"

He turned back, looked straight at her, as though she were transparent and he could see into her soul.

Loki said nothing, let the silence pass between them before he stood, and swept out of the room like a storm at sea.


	11. Where Dark Things Sleep

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 11: **Where Dark Things Sleep

* * *

Between the interference of his mother and the troubles of dealing with Sif and the Warriors Three, Loki had begun to question as to whether or not this was all worth it. Frigga was easy enough to deceive, always had been, what with her eagerness to show him her love, shield him from the world and all of its wickedness. But Sif and her friends, his brother's friends, were proving to be more of a nuisance than he had initially anticipated. From the moment Loki had taken the throne, he had deduced that the warriors would not be pleased, would seek to make contact with his mother in hopes of changing her mind. He had paid that last bit no attention, knowing that the queen found herself in a desperate situation, had no choice but to appoint a king in Odin's stead, that he was the only option. Instead, Loki had sought to divide them, split the group into as many pieces as possible, scatter them and keep them from agreeing with one another, for he was certain that, were they to find a point of mutual cooperation, they would conspire against him just as they always had.

He paced, stared down the empty aisles of the library shelves, curious as to how Thor would have set about flipping them to the floor. As the thought moved through his head, Loki found that he was disgusted with himself, having almost allowed himself to behave in so vile a manner as his brother. Flipping tables and throwing ridiculous tantrums. It had always been best to isolate himself, let the anger radiate through the room and out the window until such a time as he could formulate a coherent sentence.

Fortunately, he had thought to tell the guards not to allow a soul entry into the wide room. Loki hadn't made mention of it, but were even a mouse to slip through the door, he'd have their heads.

He growled, purposely avoiding the seating area in the northeast corner of the room where Frigga would often sit and read. Though it pained him to admit, even to himself, his mother was steadily becoming a thorn in his side. Knowing that he would not allow harm to come to her, she would speak of things that would have been led to the death of any other being, daring to challenge him and force him to accept her words with good grace.

From the moment he had relayed to her his brother's banishment, Loki had intended to hold fast to her heart, ensure that Thor was kept out of it, that she continued to play at the favoritism that she so fervently denied. But it had no played out that way, as the servants had far too easily picked up on the fact that he detested the very mention of Thor's name. And so, it had become a sort of taboo to speak of the thunderer in his presence. A notion that his mother had come to realize as well. A notion that had only served to strengthen her longing for the golden Son of Odin.

It was sickening, that his desire to maintain her love, keep it loyal to him alone, had served to drive her further away, bring her to suspect him in the way that Loki knew she did. She was like to think him a mistake now.

What a torment it all was, not knowing which way to turn and who to deal with first. Holding fast to one of the shelves, he pressed his forehead against the spines of the books, that unnamed scent that lingered on their pages filling his lungs. They had always been a comfort to Loki, moreso than arms wrapped tightly around him, offering up warmth and a desire to protect. These lifeless objects, what with their vast amounts of knowledge, had always been far more welcoming to him in the dead of night than the presence of another.

He touched one of them, a spark running up his arm and bringing his mother's words of old back into his mind. She had never expressly disapproved of his and Thor's actions, the way with which they satisfied themselves with beautiful and talented girls. She had only ever hoped that, through such experimentation, they would enter a state of contentment, push the others through the doors and hold to but one.

Loki smiled. That was it.

It didn't matter if he truly gave a damn about her, just so long as he found a woman with which to satisfy his mother's wishes for him. It would be little more than convenience. She would live out the remainder of her days within the walls of the palace, waited on hand and foot as royalty, and he would regain his mother's confidence, her trust, continue playing at this game and maintain the throne.

Even were Thor to return, in days or even weeks, it was certain that Frigga would not have the heart to give him the throne were Loki to have a satisfactory woman holding to his hand.

All the better it would be if she could hold her own.


	12. Supremacy

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 12: **Supremacy

* * *

The smell of polish was comforting, and Sif sat idly on a bench in the armory, rubbing the cloth over the blades of her many knives. She had laid the leather pouch out beside her, taking each one out and taking care of it before slipping it back into its proper place and moving on to the next. It was a soothing exercise, one that she'd maintained for years now, at least once a week. Though it was a bizarre parallel, Sif had somehow taken to likening it to Fandral's hobby of polishing his own sword by the hands of women, or to the way Volstagg took to counting his grapes before devouring them.

She sat upright, shook her head as if to remove that first thought from her mind. The man's hobbies were his own business, and she wished fervently that he would refrain from blabbing about them as though he were talking about the weather.

A sigh escaped her lips, and Sif finished polishing the last of the knives, shoved it back into the slit of the leather without looking, and mistakenly stabbed herself in the hand.

The warrior swore under her breath, dropped the cloth so as not to fill the wound with the substance, and set off across the wide room, hoping that, when she pushed the door open, one of the servants would happen to be walking outside with a cleaning cloth. Her steps echoed as she moved and, as soon as her good hand closed around the handle of the door, it opened, eyes widening as she jumped back, found Loki staring at her with nearly as much surprise.

"Oh, damn," he huffed, looking as though his screaming heart would hop up his throat and walk right off his tongue. "I thought you'd be here, but I didn't think–"

"To knock?" Sif interrupted, still keeping her her cut hand stiff.

It dripped on the floor, drawing his attention. "How did that happen?"

What did he care, sick bastard that he was? Sif scowled and turned herself right around, content with rubbing the blood off on her clothes and taking to washing them later. For now, she just needed to get away from Loki. Or as far away as she could so that, while he followed at her heels, Sif could grab her things and rush out the door which he was no longer standing in front of.

The blades clattered as she began to fold up the leather, attempted to tie the strings with one hand and failed miserably. Sif rolled her eyes as his shadow eclipsed the ties, and flinched as Loki, without looking into her stunned face, fastened them himself, lifting the pouch and offering it to her. Surprisingly, he didn't smile.

Sif didn't move to take it, sat down on the bench and rolled her eyes visibly as he sat beside her, palming the leather.

"This isn't still about your hair, is it?" He sounded melancholy, seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her as she stared. "Because I do remember apologizing for that. Multiple times, I might add."

Yes, she remembered that day well. They'd had quite the heated argument about Thor, of all things, and, when she had awakened the next morning, dark hairs had been strewn across her pillow, and that which she had always tied into her ponytail had been cut off. And, though he had eventually apologized, albeit by means of Thor forcing him, Sif had given the prince a sound beating and left him to climb out of the garden fountain.

"No," she replied, though Sif found herself wishing, hoping, that she could use that to make him feel guilty about all the trouble he was causing. Fat chance, of course. "And Thor _made _you."

That last bit, though common knowledge, was added on just so she could watch him squirm. Loki stiffened and grit his teeth.

Sif sighed, found herself thinking about all the crazy adventures Thor had taken them on, all the times they'd come home bloodied and bruised with great stories to tell. They would all sit around the table with the Allfather and the queen, detailing their journeys and laughing even while Frigga's jaw dropped and Odin rattled the table.

The woman flinched, tensed as Loki grabbed her by the wrist, turned her hand over in his to stare at the gash in her palm. She tried to pull away, but he pulled right back, causing her to slide across the bench a ways. Sif said nothing, stared incredulously as Loki pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, pressed it hard against her torn skin and said nothing. Her eyes moved up, stared at him until he forced her fingers to make a fist.

"Hold it," he said, still not looking at her. "It isn't bad. Should stop soon."

Sif didn't know what to think. It was as though he were two different people, one of them the caustic young man she'd gone off on adventures with in the past, while the other was the ruthless king, obsessed with the idea of maintaining a throne and killing his brother. And, with the way he seemed to flip back and forth all the time, Sif couldn't help wondering if, maybe, the two of them were so tightly entwined that they would never again become separate; that the former personality would never again take him over.

She muttered a near silent apology, stared at their reflections the floor. Which version of him was real, she wondered? The boy who had played his tricks and roused their tempers, or the man who sought to silence them all? And which, she dared to ask herself, was the reflection that peered back at her now?

Thor would know, she realized. They'd been closer to each other than friends, than brothers. Perhaps even more than a mother and her child. They had done everything together, fought for each other, nearly died multiple times so that the other could live. Where was Thor when they needed him? Where was he when they needed him to sort this all out?

Loki's dark brow furrowed and he looked away from her in the floor, turned his head slightly and shifted towards her.

For a time after he'd damaged her hair, Sif had thought that, maybe, he'd somehow managed to fall in love with her. That all the antagonistic remarks and tricks had been his own awkward, childish way of expressing it.

She sucked in a sharp breath, felt it drain from her lungs just as quickly, appalled to find that, the instant she finished the thought, he'd taken to kissing her. Sif raised her left hand, struck him across the face and scooted back across the bench and leaving him to stare. Loki _hated _being struck.

"What about Sigyn?" she whispered, suddenly recalling that the woman hadn't been seen about the palace for quite some time. At least, not nearly as often as she had been even a decade earlier. "I thought–"

"She's just for fun." That was like a slap in the face to Sif herself. Especially with the way he leered at her, laughing. "Oh, don't give me that look. Haven't you ever had someone that you use only to get your–"

_"No." _Sif's voice was deadpan. "No. Never."

Loki made a discontented sound, raised his eyebrows and rolled his tongue across his teeth, still watching her. It was disgusting, the way he'd shuffled the cards on her like that, changed his mask while she'd been watching. It was all part of the game he played, the power play, trying to weasel his way into warm and inviting hearts, get them to trust him before turning them inside-out.

Sif frowned, snatched the pouch from him and stood, moved swiftly on her heel to walk away. But she was pulled back, caught by the wrist as he got to his feet, stared into her eyes and squeezed until the bones in her arm clicked gently together. The knives fell to the floor and scattered.

"What do you want?" she snapped, flinching as he tugged the cloth from her hand.

That maddening smirk spread across his face, eyes lighting up as his hand moved to brush hair behind her ear. Sif grit her teeth.

"Such a shame," he whispered, as though someone would hear him. "You've found me out, haven't you, Sif?"

That was as good a confession as any, and Sif found herself trembling in his grasp, blood boiling to the point that she wished she could reach a blade, wished her ridiculous attempts at getting him to talk before had worked. But, even if they had, then what? Who would she tell, her friends? His mother? Her friends would certainly believe it, at least Volstagg and Hogun would if she could prove it, but with the queen, Sif knew she had no chance. She loved her sons, trusted them and the Allfather above all others, was likely unable to think ill of them, no matter what they did.

And so, Sif found herself very much alone.

"Did you think yourself clever, Sif? Convening with your little friends all this time," she noted that he hadn't called them _his _friends, "trying to sneak behind my back?" He laughed. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? That your acts of treason would be witnessed by blind eyes?"

The warrior woman seethed, shoved him as best she could and hissed, "_Treason? _You dare to accuse me," Sif raised her voice, "when you lie to all, sit upon a throne that does not belong to you?! Even to your own mother!"

Loki shook his head, the gleam in his eye shifting from that of amusement to solid irritation. "You have no right to speak of her."

"And what makes you think you do?! You've _lied _to her! For who knows how long?! You have her wrapped around your finger, and as much as you claim to love her, the woman who gave you everything, you won't let go!"

He trembled, ground his teeth and squeezed her arm tighter. "You don't know," he growled. "You have _no idea _what she's done; what the both of them have done! And I pray you never will..."

What a puzzling thing to say. Loki loved his mother, had always sought after his father's acceptance. What could the both of them have done to bring this all about?

"It matters not what you think, Sif. What you want, for I cannot have you running free any longer. Mother will, today, be informed of our arrangements, and you will hold your tongue." Her breaths grew panicked, his free hand holding tightly to her jaw. "Asgard has her king. And, soon, a new queen to stand at his side."

* * *

Yes, yes, total mind blow. But that's the point. I swear, I don't write in shit like this just because I can. I'm a schemer.


	13. Poison In Your Ear

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 13: **Poison In Your Ear

* * *

The queen's heart soared, far higher than it had in weeks now, and thought, for a moment, that all breath had been swept from her body. She smiled, pressed a hand to her mouth as Loki held to her arm, dragged a chair from the table and eased her into it. This was far too good to be true, she thought, having never anticipated that something of the sort would happen. At least, not so soon. For years she had tried to teach her sons the proper way to a woman's heart, that respect for one another was above all else when it came to love, and it seemed to have paid off now. Though she had never once pegged Loki's penchant for games, particularly the one played years before with poor Sif's hair, as a means of showing his respect or adoration. But she was willing to accept that that had been the act of a child, and that he had grown since.

"When?" she said, taking his face in her hands as if to make sure that the moment was real. The queen didn't want this to be a dream.

He looked at her passively, probably still in a state of shock himself, and shrugged. "I know not."

It wasn't at all what she had wanted to hear, but Frigga accepted it all the same, set those fears of hers to rest and allowed herself to bathe in the words that repeated in her head. Even were Odin to never wake, were Thor to never come home, she would not have to spend the rest of her days worrying for her son, hoping that he would have the means with which to find a suitable woman to aid him. She wouldn't have to waste away the days fretting over the boy who, almost overnight, had become a man and a king.

"You are sure?" the queen asked yet again, still very much elated. "She has accepted?"

Her boy laughed and satisfaction washed over her, that gentle look having made its way back into his eyes. The very same that he and Thor had held in their air when they'd go running about Asgard together.

"Yes. It would be a cruel trick to play, otherwise."

It was a strange match, she would admit, as Frigga had always expected Thor to end up paired with the Lady Sif, for Loki to find his happiness with someone like the young Sigyn. But she would say nothing, would not doubt his words, for the very floors of the palace seemed to buzz with the news that, surely, had been let slip by the warrior woman herself. Yet there was a sudden emptiness that tore through the joy, the reminder that neither her husband nor elder son would be present to witness the event. Still, Frigga held her tongue.

After many nights of uncertainty, it was good to have something to look forward to again.

**# - # - # - #**

Her protests had been easily ignored, even as her lean fingers sought to take him on her own, murder him, as it were, tear through his throat and leave him where he fell. But Loki would not have it. His terms had been made very clear, and there would be no bargaining. He was king, and his word was law the moment it left his lips. Clearly, she despised him, had for quite some time, though Loki didn't know just how long. Not after her hair, for the tone of her voice, her body language, had implied that she'd since forgiven him for such a heinous trick. A trick he was still terribly proud of.

Of their little collective, his brother's friends, Sif had been the one whom Loki had not forced to shed tears as a child. She had screamed at him plenty, beaten him, but he had never once seen her cry. Not until the day that Thor had dragged him out of bed by the collar of his tunic, forced him to stand before her in the gardens and apologize. He'd felt almost wretched at the time, her face having turned red as she stifled sobs, but as the years had passed and the rift between himself and Sif had grown ever wider, Loki had developed a sense of pride in having broken her down.

And to see her crumble yet again, eyes wide and mouth agape in disbelief as she tried in vain to change his mind, was nothing short of thrilling. As had his mother's reaction been.

It had since grown dark, the halls of the palace quiet save for the crackling of torches and the sound of his own steps. It was certain that none of them had ever known, but the darkness, the cold, was where Loki had often found himself most at home. Heat and light were despised, having always been far too closely associated with Thor, and, as he had grown, he'd come to hate them entirely, but had continued to deal with them. After all, even a king could not hold power enough to banish the sun and the warm seasons.

The woman stood where he had expected her to, in his chambers as ordered, flanked by the guards who, as he approached, appeared more than eager to get away. She must have threatened them, he thought with a smirk, and quickly waved them off with a hand and took Sif by the arm. She made a face, pulled herself away and shook her head.

"This is madness," she said, and Loki could almost hear the drum of her heart as it raced. Was it from fear or anger, he wondered?

"Is it now?" His voice was low and Loki took her by the wrist again. "Do not be so repulsed, Sif. Take pleasure in knowing that I do not love you, that I never have. You are as all the others have been: A means to an end. An end that, I must say, I've never been more pleased with."

The trickster's eyes shut, his breath heavy as the open palm of her free hand flew, once more, across his face. He was steadily growing tired of her defiance, had long-since been fed up with being seen as little more than a toy for Thor and friends to smack around. Loki growled, took the woman's feet out from beneath her, and lowered her to the floor by his hold on her arm.

Sif made a face, dark hair pooling behind her head as she leered up at him, teeth sinking into her lip as, on the morning she and the Warriors Three had arrived to speak to Odin, he straddled her, purposely shifting his weight in a manner that the woman surely found appalling. She spat as Loki tugged the tie from her hair, commenting that it looked much better this way, wild and threatening, and Sif struggled.

"You have not yet seen an end," she hissed. "You know not if Thor will return, and thus live out your days in fear that he will come to strike you down!"

Were he still a child, Loki would have struck her back, satisfied himself with watching her stumble on her feet. But he smiled and set about doing the one thing that Sif couldn't stand. He slipped his tongue between her teeth.

The woman tensed, her wrists struggling to free themselves from beneath the soles of his boots as his fingers curled into her hair. He would take his time, Loki decided, until Sif got the better of him and decided to bite.

The trickster sat up, wiped the blood away with the back of a hand and sighed.

"Why must you always be so difficult, Sif? Do you not see that the Nine Realms are _changing_? Do you not see that Jotunheim seeks a war with us, that my father cannot bear arms against the giants?" His gaze softened the way he'd seen Thor's do so many times. Loki had since learned to mimic that look. "Who would defend Asgard if not me? Who would–"

"Were it not for that fork in your tongue," she snarled, "perhaps I could believe the lies you try to feed. You care _nothing _for Asgard. If you did, you would have brought Thor home."

Words were wasted on her, a fact which he finally acknowledged. Sif was far too strong, had far too much faith in Thor and the Allfather to trust him as the others did. What a shame it was, he thought.


	14. Butterflies And Hurricanes

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 14: **Butterflies And Hurricanes

* * *

Her dark brows creased, a hand falling over her eyes as she groaned, hair splayed across the sheets and spilling down her back as she sat up. The curtains were wide open, the sunlight shining into her face as she fought to usher the feelings of sleep away.

Sif made a face and let out a soft laugh as her foggy head cleared up, believing that the events of the night before had been little more than a sick dream. She was a woman true only to herself and her loyalties lay only with Asgard and it's true king, not to the fleeting desires that had brought desperate young maids into the bedchambers of equally as eager men. Perhaps she would have thought fondly on the images that had projected themselves inside her skull, had they been real and part of the life which she had always wanted. A life with the firstborn and heir to the throne. That smile stayed upon her lips even as she turned, slowly becoming a scowl as her fingers grazed his.

It was as though lightning had dropped out of the sky, shot through her bones and shook her to the core. Sif recoiled, afraid as she felt the pit of her stomach drop, pulled the sheets up and over her bare skin. A lump formed in her throat, that which she could not seem to swallow, and clamped her eyes shut, turned her head.

She took to silently pleading, hoping, in the name of Odin, that she was still sleeping, that none of this was real. But, as she dared to peek, breath caught in her lungs, as though she had been strung up on the branch of a tree with a thick length of rope about her neck. Sure as the sun was shining, there he was, eyes closed in sleep and looking the role of the peaceful prince that he had been, rather than the bastard king. Loki's hair was disheveled, thrown across his forehead as he lay, one arm hanging off the side of the mattress, and the other far closer to Sif than she would have liked. Even worse was the sight of her missing hair tie that lay between them, snapped into two pieces.

The woman grimaced, covered her face with her hands and groaned.

It had been real, and she'd actually _enjoyed_ it. Sif flopped back against the pillow, sighed loudly and tried to recall. Just how many men had she been with in her life? Certainly more than just this monster, and there was nothing that said she hadn't enjoyed her exploits with them, either. But this was different. This was _Loki_. This was Thor's bastard _brother_. She wasn't supposed to like the thought of his hands on her, the tang of his taste upon her lips.

This was just not happening, she told herself, and had half a mind to bang her head against the wall. It couldn't be. If anyone, she loved Thor, cared for him above all others. She _hated _Loki, had for quite some time now, had even come to think that Asgard would be better off were he dead. There was just so much wrong with all of this.

He stirred then, and Sif's heart leapt up into her mouth, eyes cast off to the side as his opened to stare at her. His gaze was passive, exhausted, as though he couldn't remember just what had happened in the dark hours of the night. That was another kick in the teeth, she realized, noting the subtle shade of darkness that lingered on his light skin. An implication that they'd been at it into the early hours of the dawn.

Sif bit her lip hard and shut her eyes. This was not happening.

Ice pulsed through her as Loki's fingers curled around her wrist. She pulled away, grabbed him in turn and forced herself onto him, glaring down at the devil with a sharpness in her eyes that Sif wished could cut him as daggers would.

"Do not touch me!" she howled, not caring if guards or servants passed by and heard her. They couldn't do a damn thing about this, anyway.

That haze in Loki's eyes vanished then, replaced instead by an unbridled hubris. That smug look of his made Sif want to slap him.

"That isn't what you said before," he retorted, and sat up just enough to nip at her bottom lip. "In fact, I swear, you asked for _more._"

Sif snarled and backhanded Loki across the face, threw herself off to the side and collected her clothes. She'd had just about enough of him for one lifetime.

"You'll play my game, Sif," he told her, and she could almost see the godawful smirk as it widened. "Just as you always have."


	15. If Only You Knew

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 15: **If Only You Knew

* * *

"And just where have you been?" Fandral said lazily, sitting with his forehead down upon the table.

Sif frowned at the tone, thought to herself that they knew damn well what had happened over the past few days. Or, at least, a part of it. Surely, they could not have known of what had happened earlier that morning, or even the night prior. Not a word had been breathed of such things, and she was confident that not a soul would know of her and Loki's doings so long as he kept his mouth shut. Which, as they had all learned in the past, was sometimes rather difficult for him to do. Particularly if he found his secret to be increasingly funny.

But this did not worry her, for Sif was fairly certain that he would not want certain parties to know of their activities. Namely his mother and Sigyn, who was probably feeling increasingly betrayed by the news of their faux marriage.

"I've been busy," she replied curtly, and refused to sit at table with the men, instead seating herself upon one of the curved couches beside the roaring fire.

"With what?" Fandral prodded, and lifted his head from the table. He looked to be in a right foul mood. "Where?"

The warrior woman leaned back upon the cushions until she lay down, staring up at the ceiling as she said, "In the armory, polishing my knives."

And that reminded Sif that, since Loki had cornered her in the room, she hadn't seen so much as seen her pouch. The woman wondered if, perhaps, he'd decided to keep hit, use it to play another stupid game with her. Well, she decided, lifting a hand to stare at the thin red line upon her palm, she would have no part of it. He'd been satisfied enough for more than a lifetime, and Sif refused to grant him any further pleasure.

The chair scraped against the floor as Fandral, now obviously drunk, hurried towards her with awkward steps, nearly toppling over a few times in the process. He stared down at her with a haze in his eyes, a faint blush upon his cheeks as he frowned, leaned over the back of the couch and sighed rather loudly. Even when intoxicated, it seemed he could tell when she was lying. Sif hated that immensely.

"Liar," he drawled, and she sat upright, the word bringing Loki's snickering face into her mind again. "You're a damn liar."

"I am not." Sif stood and moved to the opposite couch, gritting her teeth as Fandral followed quickly at her heels.

He made a face at her as they played a bit of a game, Sif darting towards one end of the couch as he attempted to follow, catch her, as it were. A sparing glance was cast at Hogun and Volstagg, the latter of which didn't seem the slightest bit interested, while the Grim had decided to star at the pair of them with an eagle's eye. That made her even more uncomfortable, and thought that he could perhaps see where Loki had kissed her. She swallowed hard.

Fandral reached forward with a gloved hand, managed to catch hold of the wrist of her right arm, tugged hard and twisted until her palm looked to the ceiling. With unfocused eyes, he leaned in, stared hard at the skin until Sif yanked herself away, took several steps back.

"What?"

"You weren't in the armory today," he told her with a bit of a slur. "Yesterday, perhaps, because your polishing cloth was found on the floor this morning, all dried out."

"Your point?"

His head fell forward as Fandral's knees rested upon the couch, caught him as he teetered. "You cut yourself," he murmured. "You never cut yourself. Haven't in years..."

To keep up the charade, convince them that she was fine and all was well, Sif promptly leaned over and thumped the warrior on the forehead, watched as he groaned and covered his face. If she behaved normally, they would have no reason to question her.

"Fool," she said, motioning towards the cask of ale upon the table. "You've had far too much to drink."

"But he is right," Volstagg said, suddenly alert and paying attention. "You never cut yourself. Why now?"

The woman sighed, crossed the room to take her place at table, leaning forward on an elbow as she reached towards the fruit bowl to seize an apple.

"He startled me," she said, tossing the thing to the bearded man. He caught it with little enthusiasm. "Loki, I mean. Thought it would be good sport, the bastard."

The two coherent men stared at one another for a split second before Hogun nodded slightly, as if to say that it made sense enough. But Volstagg did not look convinced in the least, and continued to prod her with his words.

"Did you hit him?"

"Of course. Wouldn't you?"

"Where?"

"In his smug face," Sif said, and sported a satisfied smile. Yes, she had managed to strike him a good time or two. But not nearly hard enough to do any real damage, she thought with bitterness. "My only regret is that I didn't hit him any harder."

What was Volstagg getting at? What point was there to all these questions?

The doors opened then to allow the queen entry, and the warriors, save drunken Fandral, all hopped to their feet with wide eyes. The woman said nothing to a one of them at first, took to surveying the room and peering behind the columns as if she expected a giggling child to jump out at her, wrap his arms about her waist with the utmost glee. Sif purposely averted her eyes when Frigga's rested upon her, pretended that she had seen something out the window and quickly moved to investigate. Sadly, there was nothing of even mild interest upon the pavement, save a few sparrows that pecked hungrily at the bits of bread that had been spread about, and Sif tensed as the queen's glow swept up alongside her.

It was rather unlikely that she had, but Sif hoped that the queen hadn't heard what she'd said about her son; Hoped that she hadn't heard that the lady warrior held a fervent desire to cause the bastard a bit of well-deserved pain.

Sif sighed heavily through her nose as a smooth hand rested upon her shoulder, the great golden doors closing heavily behind them. She turned back, eyes wide with open shock upon realizing that her friends were now gone, leaving the two of them alone. Sif looked to the queen, expecting to see mild irritation upon her face. But her features were calm, beaming, warm like the gentle kiss of the sun, and, immediately, the warrior woman understood what this was all about. It turned her stomach.

They talked for a time, walked quietly about the room as though it were the great outdoors, and Sif, with bile churning in her gut, forced herself to lie, to say that, yes, she had consented to the marriage, that she hoped the ceremony would take place before the cold seasons came.

Very fortunately, their chat was soon interrupted by the devil himself, that fake smile upon his face and Sif's leather pouch in his hand.

"I imagine you've been looking for this," he said, and offered it to her as Frigga pulled him close.

She forced a smile, disgusted by the wicked gleam in his eye, and kept up her charade as the queen went on, expressing to the both of them her great excitement.

"I had hoped," she said, and the words began to break Sif's heart, "that such a day would come. But I had not imagined that it would greet us so soon." Her hand fell upon Loki's cheek. "Your father would be so proud of you."

Sif smiled inwardly at the gentle twitch of his eye as he kissed his mother, took hold of Sif's wrist. She didn't like this, didn't like being pulled to his side as though she were but a dog upon a leash. But she did as was expected of her and leaned into him, startled as she was pressed roughly against him, forced again to swallow the bitter taste of his tongue in her mouth.

There came a cry from the door then, cracked open just enough for her face to be seen, Sigyn, with a hand pressed to her lips before she darted off down the hallway.

"Damn," Loki swore and, to Frigga's great shock, hurried after her without a word.

The queen looked to Sif then, confusion brimming in her blue gaze and a question upon her lips.

"I... I had thought that he had told her," she said, and Sif shrugged her shoulders.

Apparently, the silver tongued snake didn't have everything wrapped up as neatly as he liked to pretend.


	16. Feed Me Fables

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 16: **Feed Me Fables

* * *

It didn't last long, their silly little game of chase through the ornate hallways. He managed to catch her, if only by the long sleeve of her gown, before she could dart down another row of shelves, find a suitable place to hide within the vast library. The flames sent shadows darting across the walls, the expanse of the room silent safe for their faint crackling and her heavy breaths. Loki said nothing, counted to ten under his breath before pulling her back, like a fish on a hook, and into his arms. Sigyn shuddered and refused to look at him.

He couldn't stand tears, particularly those from creatures so emotional as women, and shut his eyes even as she began to fidget, tried to get away. How daft she was, thinking that she could eavesdrop on private matters and just walk quietly away without consequence. It didn't work that way, not when he was king, and he held her tighter as she began to whimper and cry.

They moved back a few steps, until his back touched the spines of the books upon the shelves. Loki tilted her head up, laid a finger to her lips and shushed her, even as the woman's eyes remained glazed and her face was flushed with embarrassment. Really, none of this was anything to cry over.

"Tears," he said, and brushed a thumb across the trail upon her cheek. "And for what?"

Sigyn put on a fierce face, scowled up at him and shoved herself away, fingers curling into the sides of her sleeves as if she meant to protect herself. "Liar," she hissed, and his brows arched. "You've always lied to me, haven't you? Pretended that I was... That we... That we were..."

He could hear the breath catch in her throat, his hands placed firmly upon her hips, one sliding around to lift her from the floor, press her against him. The woman's arms moved then, her entire demeanor changing as he nipped at the pink flesh of her lips, drew one into his mouth and bit. Sigyn squirmed, though not in a manner than implied discomfort, and pushed her tongue against his, made a soft mewling sound in the back of her throat.

Sif was a pawn, a means with which to obtain that which he needed. Complete domination over Asgard, the power to demolish the Allfather's beloved peace, to ensure that Thor would not return home again. And his mother's trust. It was strange, even to him, that he sought after her affections, though he had always had them, had always been foremost in the queen's mind. But he had seen her feelings for him wane in the time his false brother had been gone, had seen her eyes and the longing that lay so strongly behind them, burning, hoping that, with each crack of white lightning across the dark and clouded sky, the God of Thunder would come charging back into her arms.

He hated it.

Loki scowled, pursed his lips as Sigyn shifted, lay her warm tongue against the hollow of his throat, clinging to him in earnest desperation. He pulled back, took her face in his hands and stared, commanding her full and undivided attention.

"Listen to me," he whispered, but she leaned in to catch him in a kiss again. "I did not lie to you. I have never lied _to you._"

That caused the woman to frown, to raise a hand and sweep her dark hair back and over her shoulder, watching him with suspicion and doubt. "Is that so?" she retorted, and nodded towards the door, as if Sif stood behind it. "Then why would you choose her? What reason could you possibly have for–"

"Sif is far too free with her words," Loki murmured, far too easily playing the role of victim upon his face. This was _his_ game, _his_throne, _his_Asgard. He cast his bright eyes about in a short fit of false suspicion and nerves. "Do you not see? She would... If I leave her be, let her roam to do as she pleases, she would upset the balance, fly swift to Midgard bring Thor home. Plunge all of Asgard into war with Jotunheim!"

Sigyn only stared.

"Can you not see it?" he shook her, until he thought that her brains might rattle free. "She will ruin everything. The peace that my father would have surely died to defend." Unbecoming as it was for a king, Loki took her hands in his, dropped to his knees and peered up at the woman in earnest. Not a bit of this tasted a bitter lie upon his lips. He was far too accustomed to spouting such convincing falsehoods, for there sat years of a practiced craft beneath his belt. "Would you not help me? Believe me that I cannot cleave unto another soul as I do to yours?"

Like the swift drop of a pin she was upon him, sending them both to the floor with Sigyn's arms secured firmly about his neck. The words tumbled from her lips like a harsh rain, fell upon Loki in a manner that gave him cause to smile. So ready she was to hold to him, to have her affections for him returned tenfold, to hear him speak the words that would not ever rise above that of a whisper.

Women, the king thought as she smiled and kissed him again, were so damn easy to manipulate.

**# - # - # - #**

"Why did she not say something?!" Fandral demanded, throwing his waterskin to the ground. The thing looked for a moment as though it might shudder and wail, but sat still and began to leak from the mouthpiece like a little river. The warrior scowled and scooped it up again. "She could have told us! She–"

He hated that Sif had kept such a great secret from them, though even for the space of a few days. It ate at him from the inside, wondering if she hadn't said but a word because she couldn't trust them now that Thor was gone. Or, perhaps he'd said something stupid as he had a habit of doing, thus angering her and pushing her further away.

The warrior screamed, hands tangled in his hair as he flopped backwards into the grass, bemoaning his bad fortune and his own stupidity.

His friends didn't dare argue with that last part.

"It isn't you, Fandral," Volstagg chimed, catching the practice dummy in the chest with the point of his ax. The thing flopped over backwards, the top half of its straw body flying into the fence. The stick that had held the thing up was splintered as well. "To be perfectly frank with the both of you," he said, turning and hefting the weapon onto his shoulder, "I wouldn't want to talk about it, either. Not to anyone."

The blond man sighed, the tension escaping body as swiftly as did his breath. He supposed the old boy had a point. Sif was in a terrible position, caught quite easily between the devil and the deep blue sea, it seemed. Truly, he couldn't fault her for holding her tongue, forcing herself to swallow her discontent. Perhaps she felt that, if she could pretend that things were the same as they'd always been, the situation would become a great deal easier to bear. But, knowing Sif, Fandral found himself doubting the idea.

She was a headstrong woman, had never run from any foe from any danger, had always been just as willing as the rest of them to jump right into the fray. Even were they sure to burn in it.

Fandrfal felt sick to his stomach, thinking that, at some point in the near future, they'd all be standing in the great hall, forced to hold their tongues and stand silent as their dear friend was forcibly bound to the devil.

"What a fool I have been," he muttered to himself, and slapped the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Sif was right all along..."

Loki had lied to them all.


	17. I'm Only Here To Disappoint

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Thor_, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

**Chapter 17: **I'm Only Here To Disappoint

**A/N: **I have had the hardest time working on this for the past six months. But I suppose that's obvious from the lack of updates. However, a lot of recent chatter with various people has helped me overcome that horrible bout of writer's block, and I'm back to finish this.

* * *

Oh, how easily fooled they were, the Jotunns. Barbaric, bloodthirsty to a fault, and, dare he say, ugly to boot. Quite fortunately, his time spent with the Aesir hadn't been a complete waste, for Loki possessed decorum, manners, restraint. He did not run about the Nine Realms, about Asgard, tearing to pieces anything and everything that dared to challenge him. Truth be told, it would have been easier, to end every conflict with the sound of heads rolling down the hall, but it wouldn't have gone over well with the people. And, were the Asgardians to revolt against the throne, against him, there would be trouble. A king that was the target of his own people's disdain and mistrust was a man who, in due time, would be sought out as a mark by the beasts that lived among Yggdrasil's branches.

He couldn't have that.

It would have been unfortunate, he thought, for the Gatekeeper to have not noticed his subtle schemes, the gentle brush of snow against his shoulder as he slipped back through the Bifrost. Loki could have played solely by his rules, used the unseen passages that none but his mother thought to be possible, but why out himself just yet? Why give Heimdall yet another reason to rightly suspect him?

The challenge was welcome, to have the Gatekeeper speak to him as though he had reason to fear, reason to beg forgiveness at Odin's bedside, confess his sins. But Heimdall had no power, none save that allotted him, and he could not use that against his king so long as he remained the keeper of the realm, the All-Seeing Eye. It was an endless cycle, one that could only be broken by the express command of Asgard's present king. And Loki, knowing that the guardian would likely turn on him immediately upon being relieved of his post, would never let those words slip past his lips.

"He was your king," Loki said, and how hard it was for him to appear serious, reserved. Though it was certain that the Gatekeeper knew what lay behind the charade. Absolute glee. "And you are sworn to obey me now, yes?"

Those golden eyes narrowed beneath the helm, and, for but a second, Loki smirked, raised his dark brows as if to say that he was waiting. The Gatekeeper's lip curled for but a moment, and he sighed.

"Yes."

That was what he'd wanted to hear. The great Heimdall, sworn to obey the king that a handful, those familiar with the inner workings of the palace, could not bear. They could not stop him, either. He was Loki, the God of Mischief, liar son of Odin. He had been stolen from the brink of death, saved and raised to be a king, the Allfather's undoing, the hand that would purge the Nine Realms of the barbarians that had had the misfortune to spawn him. Such irony it was. That the Frost Giants would leave to perish the man who would be king, would grind their icy little planet into naught but stardust. That thought made this all the more satisfying.

Even so, he had to play the part, though the Gatekeeper must have seen what lay within his heart, his wicked intentions.

"Then you will open the Bifrost to no one. Until I have repaired the damage that my brother has done!"

**# - # - # - #**

Fandral wanted to kick himself, hands folded behind his back as he stood solidly, awkwardly, in the center of the room. They had tried to stop him, the guards, saying that they could not allow him into the throne room until the king had returned. That had made him sick, seeing Loki's face in his mind as the word was spoken. As much as he'd tried to believe that the prince wasn't against them, against Thor, he'd never gotten used to thinking of the man as a king. Odin was the only man who seemed to fit such a heavy title. The only one worthy of it, as well. Even so, he could not keep his mind focused on such thoughts, not with his eyes shut and head bowed slightly to the floor.

Perhaps this, wanting to crawl into a hole and hide, was how Sif and the others felt when he bragged about his exploits. It wasn't terrible, certainly nothing in comparison to his fun, but seeing the woman positioned just so in his lap on the throne, the helmet teetering down the steps as it was shoved away, made his stomach sink and his mouth grow dry, for this was nothing but awkward.

"What in the devil are you doing?" Fandral nearly laughed as the words slipped from his tongue. Funny how he'd seen fit to bring the devil into all this, considering he was the one at the heart of the matter. Using Sif, lying to Asgard, to the queen. All things he should have seen weeks ago. Things that, with Sigyn hovering about, he'd never be able to get off his chest. The smile on his face was forced. This had to be believable. "I would think that there is a time and place for such things."

Loki snorted, leaned forward to lick the woman's lips, as if to insist to the warrior that he did as he pleased. "Yes, and you are certainly the one to lecture me on propriety."

"A suggestion," Fandral replied, and rocked back and forth on his feet. Sigyn glowered at him. "I would like a word, if I may."

She gave a breathy sigh, the hem of her gown trailing along behind as she stepped lightly down the stairs, casting the Valiant a displeased glance as she went padding out of the room. The doors shut firm behind her, Loki's expression having changed to that of a bemused stare as Fandral gripped the helmet by one of its horns and offered it to him.

His insides twisted, the hand that so falsely wielded Gungnir taking hold of the other horn and, with a harsh shock, sent the warrior skidding across the floor with a groan.

Fandral peered up, his eyes snapping shut again as the point of the spear dove towards him, missing the side of his cheek by little more than a hair's width as Loki set one hand about his throat.

"A word?" the snake parroted, raising a brow. "Would this... _word_ happen to have anything to do with my arrangement with the Lady Sif?"

The warrior choked, his blue eyes narrowing in defiance.

"Arrangements?!" he blurted. The nerve. "Sif wants nothing to do with you, you bastard! Her only desire is that which lies with us the same: That you put aside your damned pride and bring Thor home! It is _he_ who deserves to sit upon that throne; wield your stolen power! _Thor should be king!_"

"You think _Thor_ could protect the realm, silence the very war that he sought out and created?!" Loki's voice hit a fever pitch, the glimmer in his eye no longer the ersatz gleam of confidence that Fandral had seen but a moment before. It must have been strangling to him, to know that he was losing control of all this. "Do you think he could protect Asgard, bring about an idea of peace to her people as I have? _No._ He would kill us all, upset the balance of the Nine Realms more than he has already–"

"And you've been doing what, exactly? Scheming? Lying? Playing king?" Fandral scoffed. "Tell me: Just what good does that do the rest of us? What service have you provided as our king, lurking in the shadows and slinking about behind our backs?"

A boom echoed in the warrior's ear, his eyes clamped shut in a moment of fear as Loki stepped off, the heel of his boot laid against Fandral's chest.

"Speak but a word of this," Silvertongue challenged, "and take comfort in the knowledge that I _will_ kill you and your friends."

The weight upon the Valiant's armor vanished, his eyes opening wide as his head turned to see a distinct crack where Gungnir's point had cut into the floor. Sitting up, Fandral peered towards the doors, saw them open and wide as the guards stared at him in astonishment, clearly unaware of all that had transpired, as Loki vanished down the hallway, probably to lock himself in the library or, the warrior thought with a grimace, the trusting arms of Asgard's queen.

"Bastard..."

Loki would get his, he decided, and picked himself up off the floor. And, once the others caught wind of this, they would not lie down quietly and keep their mouths shut, either.


End file.
